


Solace & Taproots

by cheerful_nihilist_tatertot



Series: Untitled Post-Epidemic Life series [1]
Category: Tom Clancy's The Division
Genre: Action & Romance, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Companionable Snark, Complete, Explicit Language, F/F, F/M, Feels, Flashbacks, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Gun Violence, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, LGBTQ Character, Military Background, Minor Character Death, My First Fanfic, Non-Graphic Violence, Not Beta Read, Original Character(s), Plague, Post-Apocalypse, Relationship(s), Sarcasm, Slow Build, Survival, Teamwork, Weapons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-23 02:47:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 101,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21312919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheerful_nihilist_tatertot/pseuds/cheerful_nihilist_tatertot
Summary: On Black Friday in 2015, a bioterrorist releases a plague in NYC that leads to societal collapse. The Division / Division 2 games focus on sleeper cell secret agents rising to pew pew all the badguys.This story focuses on the lives of normal, "regular" people, potential imaginary NPCs in the original universe.It picks up with a former college student in urban Virginia several months later, as she tries to find her new place and new people at a settlement of survivors rebuilding their lives, reflects on the rough road that got her there, and helps apply boot to ass of those would would endanger it all.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Female Character, Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Series: Untitled Post-Epidemic Life series [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1612822
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimery stuff:**  
This story is all OC’s loosely set in the world of Ubisoft’s / Massive Entertainment’s / Tom Clancy’s The Division. All copyrights etc belong to the appropriate intellectual property owners. No knowledge of the plot or games is required, hopefully enough context is included in character thoughts/speech. TL;DR: post manmade-virus-apocalypse. TV Trope: Synthetic Plague.
> 
> I only really borrow the overall setting and one antagonist faction, not interacting with the primary plot of either The Division or The Division 2. Hardcore fans of the games be warned, there isn't any fighting until like 40 pages in. I did have to fudge timelines slightly, in no small part because the games came out three years apart but supposedly only seven months went by in-canon. Mostly a matter of world events / technological progress / product releases vs. world timelines. (Example: There weren’t many plug-in hybrid SUVs in 2015.) 
> 
> **Warning-ish Stuff:**  
M/F, F/F romances, fluff, implied physical intimacy, nothing explicit. Hand-to-hand (including M/F) and firearm / vehicular combat. A primary character has previously lost a loved one, with associated exposition / flashback scenes to before/when/after it happens. This leads to some emotional H/C. Some might consider this TV-14:DLSV, or maybe you'd feel it's TV-MA. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ ESRB would probably put it around Mature 17+ (Violence, Language, Suggestive Themes, Alcohol References). Mention of but not detailed description of blood. Brief crude sexual language / references and misogynistic comments, but it ends rather poorly for the perpetrator. Very brief undetailed mention of attempted sexual assault. Again, perpetrator gets his ass beat.
> 
> **Apologetic Noob Stuff:**  
Any offense caused to identities, sexualities (including a-), religious beliefs, or veterans is accidental / ignorance. If you have a problem with a bi, pan, or gay protagonist, turn around now. If you’re looking / up for that, and you’re okay with them having guns, lock n’ load, come on in.
> 
> TV Tropes likely abound, hopefully some are subverted. If you suspect a character is making a reference to another fandom, you’re probably right.
> 
> Any technical inaccuracies / impossibilities (even with being Twenty Minutes in the Future) are because I wrote this during an extended period of time when I didn’t have internet access, I might have missed something during editing passes.
> 
> I tried to have this beta-read, but everyone in my life that I trusted to do it was too busy. So... hope it doesn't suck.
> 
> Also, [here's a PDF of a visual character study](https://drive.google.com/file/d/13QYocvFT1z4kuFy9lfXsMSNiEX1pHD1e/view) I put together -- actors who kinda resemble how I envision individual characters.

Rebecca "Bex" Clinton heard the radio in her right ear click once, twice, and twice more, drawing her out of her afternoon heat induced reverie. She shifted her weight to swing her so useful, and oh so hated rifle to bear on the eastern approach to the intersection below. She’d gotten better, much smoother — the crosshairs in her scope bobbed less than a car length as it panned. She used to have to push up from prone, scooting laterally on her elbows and knees, and taking her eye away from the magnified optic it was her job to peer through, and if necessary, either save or end lives with. 

Sometimes that distinction blurred as much as the heat waves over the pavement below; it depended on what the people at the business end did... or looked like they were about to do.

One click for "north or east", which meant she and her companion were the overwatch team that had better be awake when the signal came. Twice more for "east". The final pair of clicks meant two individuals making their way through the four-lane street cluttered with vehicles below — they still really needed to figure out what to do about the goddamned FedEx truck and all the sight lines it blocked three and a half blocks away, but for now, she waited for the impetus of the spotter team’s warning to come slowly, but oddly uncautiously, into view from behind it. They didn’t seem to be going through the scattered trash and discarded luggage, or looking in abandoned vehicles, so they weren’t scavenging. Not looking around for signs of trouble either, so either clueless, or a diversion.

Bex and her teammate Rhonda had been doing this together long enough to establish that subconscious hive mind, or mind meld, or whatever people wanted to call it that made a good team great, so she expected the quiet whisper — "Don’t see anyone else yet."

The "you keep watching those two" was implied as she heard the soft rustling of her mentor’s movement, predictably sweeping the surrounding rooftops, alleyways, and shadows with a pair of binoculars. Normally, Bex had been told, a sniper’s partner would be relaying ranges, winds, and other minutiae she only vaguely understood so far. Expected bullet drop and aim offset something something. Bex wouldn’t know what to do with all of that information yet, but she’d been staring down the nearby streets over the last several weeks enough to know how much to compensate her aim for each block’s worth of distance and still get fairly precise hits with the oddball rifle’s smaller, less powerful rounds.

When they started working together soon after first meeting, "Ronnie" had patiently explained to her that they ideally ought to be using something bigger, something with more knockdown power, but the pinky-sized 5.56mm rounds her for her quirky bolt-action rifle were far more commonplace, and easier for the quartermaster’s minions to find — or assemble, once they got lucky and had found a local "prepper’s" garage before anyone else. It was rare to find a precision rifle that you could keep well fed after the collapse of civilization, the military-industrial complex, and the NRA, so it was a valuable addition to the settlement’s scavenged armory. Unfortunately, that meant even once Bex had found the mythical combination of friendly people with more guns, she couldn’t be rid of the goddamned thing.

Every day, she struggled to keep the relevant feelings stored away in the mental equivalent of a container wearing a "Danger, Hazardous Waste" label. She couldn’t really get rid of them, and sure as hell didn’t want to be up close… certainly not right now when she had something pressing to worry about.

One of the two strangers moseying into their neighborhood was pushing a shopping cart, so checking it for nasty surprises was her first priority. No tarp or blanket, thankfully. That made it much easier to rule out propane tanks, the shoulder stock of a big gun... at worst, maybe a grenade or two in the fairly authentic looking medley of blankets, canned food, mismatched water bottles, and one of those consumer first aid kits that probably came out of the trunk of someone’s car. Mr. or Mrs. Cart Driver had both hands on the push bar, and was leaning into the weight pretty hard, so Bex figured that if things got messy, they’d take a moment to move their hands from the cart to… whatever they’d reach for. The other stranger… the guy about fifteen feet in front of the cart was carrying a small non-military-looking sport rifle, but was keeping the muzzle low. It didn’t have a sling, so she cut him a little mental slack… if she saw the barrel come up, well. That would be that. He’d feel her shot a split second before he heard it.

Fortunately, the distant figures remained docile as they approached the skinny kid who looked barely old enough to shave (former National Guard, if she remembered correctly) and the doughy ex-cop whose cushy pension had been so rudely interrupted by the apocalypse. Just like the guns you made your snipers use — and in her case, the civilian twenty-somethings you put behind them… there’s a Millennial joke in there somewhere — you couldn’t be too picky about who you put on guard duty for your little pocket of humanity these days. Still, it probably made the poor saps feel better to have Bex, Rhonda, and the belt-fed monstrosity that Rhonda crouched behind watching over them from a shadowy corner office eight floors up. World’s most half-assed guardian angels? Well, maybe not these days, if you grade on the curve…

The hot, dirty, tired guardian angels relaxed and eased their grips on their flaming swords as the ex-cop ejected the magazine from the stranger’s popgun —probably a .22 from how small it looked in Officer McDonut’s hands — and cycled the bolt to remove any round in the chamber. He returned it to the other man, and two cursory frisks and one warrantless shopping cart search later, Officer McD turned to usher the newcomers into the visible portion of their little encampment — something resembling a kid’s cobbled-together play fort writ large in scrap lumber and mismatched tarps on a four-lane bridge across a larger thoroughfare dipping below street level. Looked like they’d be having guests, or maybe even new residents… things were starting to get a bit tight in the "residential" areas, though.

The rest of the afternoon was uneventful, lingering in heat and mundanity. While the Darwinian portions of their brain watched for movement and unfamiliar shapes, the higher functioning parts of her mind standing their own watch against exhaustion inevitably busied themselves wondering what road had brought the pair below to where they were now… and dusting off and playing back her own meandering path to where she was today.

Rhonda’s well-attenuated hearing —courtesy of her background emphasizing the need for "earpro" when things went loud — heard the first unconscious sigh, followed several minutes later by the inevitable quiet clicks of Box idly toying with the mismatched gold St. Christopher’s medallion on the dull silver, starkly utilitarian dog tag(-less) chain around her neck. It was fine, Bex still flicked her gaze across the urban landscape, and there were plenty of others doing the same out there. Rhonda knew the atypical markswoman always came back to the present swiftly enough when it was time to "point and click", and left her friend to her thoughts.

**

Rebecca had been in her junior year of university when the world’s biggest asshole started killing billions of people to… what… make some kind of fucking socioeconomic statement? She and her boyfriend had planned to stay local for the long weekend in late November, celebrating their first "anniversary" (with a lowercase "a") by repeating their shamefully stereotypical first date at the best-reviewed neighborhood Chinese restaurant. Mr. Tse laughed at their frequent return visits, and made a game of almost always seating them at the same table. Later that night, their "indoor celebrations" had been as hot as the meal Mr. Tse had unexpectedly refused payment for — after a few antacids and a BitTorrented bootleg of a blockbuster they’d missed because of midterms. It still really messed with her head how bittersweet the memories of that night were.

Rebecca had met Jaime the year before on one of those "shake your phone to reject someone without telling them, swipe to imply you’d boink them but only if they admitted it first" apps. She’d been having trust issues then... one brief dalliance with a cute farm boy with very responsible views on safe sex, a handful of decent enough dates that never had sequels… and then Jaime. It was his honesty that unexpectedly won her over. His profile was clear he wanted to have a no-pressure, conversational outing before anyone’s clothes came off, and the minimal level of investment caught her interest. His steadfast refusal to sleep with the liberal-minded college girl until, while 100% sober, she’d heard all of his up-front explanation of the bumpy road of the last few years of his life. He’d fallen into gang life with his brother in high school, done time, but found his way into a couple of relevant "_______ Anonymous" groups. Trying to turn things around, he finished his GED, and was now working on transfer credits at two different community college campuses.

It impressed her enough for that date to land a follow up pilot episode, and eventually a multi-movie franchise deal to the complete surprise of the co-stars. He was so methodically forthright that when she pretended not to catch him poking through the Japanese cracked-glaze bowl she kept her assorted rings in on the last Saturday morning in January, she got giddy twitterpated butterflies instead of lurking doubts. Fortunately, they both seemed to independently realize it was too early for anything involving a ring, but that didn’t stop some impractical part of her now from, knowing now what the following winter would bring, wishing they’d plunged recklessly ahead while they had the ignorant chance. Some nights, she ached to go back, profess her unguarded adoration of him the first night, sleep with him on the second date, and marry him on the third.

Black Friday, a year later. That solipsistic rat bastard started the end of the world with virus-poisoned cash in tip jars and register drawers. How many baristas were overjoyed at the $20 holiday tip that killed them and most of their coworkers? How many sales clerks saved themselves and their families, at least for a little while, through habitual use of hand sanitizers? These were all vastly more horrific what-if’s that could overshadow the more personal ones lurking in her heart, and somehow hurt less, even if she sometimes felt terrible about that.

She’d heard he’d been offed by an even more deranged co-conspirator. Or infected with his own nightmare bug. Or double-tapped in the face by a superpowered ninja secret agent working to preserve truth and justice… or capitalism and the .01%, your choice. Consensus amongst the wildly varied rumors was he met a bad end. Not bad enough. She’d always hated when perpetrators of terrible crimes would wreak so much hurt, and then off themselves. It felt to her like one last cowardly theft, robbing those who might find some modicum of comfort, some shred of solace, in blood soaked Hammurabic revenge. She’d certainly wait in line for her turn for… That Guy. Whatever his name was. She’d decided a few weeks back she was content not knowing his name. Like the news outlets that used to refuse to mention mass murderers’ names, or show their face. Deny them all what we could of the legacy they coveted.

Rebecca and Jaime hadn’t known what was happening until the "Have you seen the news?!? Are you ok?" phone calls started a few days in. Once they turned on the TV and started poking around online, Jaime, bless him, didn’t take long to realize how bad things were going to get now that everyone was starting to realize and announce the scale of what was happening. He didn’t need to know how the virus had been specifically designed with deceptively short infection times, and insidiously long incubation periods — thousands were asymptomatic carriers for days. But, he knew what people would do when everything went to shit.

Jaime looked past the talking heads, at the footage of looted stores, swamped hospitals, overrun checkpoints. He urged her to send a few updates to friends and family over social media while he ransacked their storage unit in the apartment building’s basement, bringing up all of the camping gear they’d added to her initially small collection over the last several months and depositing it in the main room of her modest one-bedroom flat. He packed hastily but intentionally, keeping the solar battery charger that kept them musically supplied at an Appalachian campsite last June, but abandoning the heavy lantern for smaller LED lights from her kitchen and nightstand drawers, and discarding the propane camp stove for the compact wood-burning vortex fire can they’d bought through crowdfunding. Meanwhile, she had gathered their outdoors wear, scooped the contents of the "medicine cabinet" shelf from the hallway closet into a garbage bag, and unlocked the pistol safe mounted under her bedside table, along with the surplus ammo can where she stored the related odds and ends.

She’d never told Jaime the combination, at his own insistence. But, the way things were looking, she’d be relieved to encounter a functional law enforcement agency that could try to turn her legal concealed carry into a parole violation for her boyfriend. (Oh, to have had the time for him to have been more… probably the third or fourth sigh that Rhonda sympathetically ignored.)

**

She’d bought the little pistol between her freshman and sophomore academic years, maybe ten months before meeting Jaime, when she moved off campus. There’d been a series of attempted assaults during the less populated summer months, until a varsity soccer player turned the tables on an overprivileged fratboy, dislocating one of his wrists (Rebecca hadn’t even known you could do that…) and providing local police with enough blood to get a DNA sample from the laptop-and-book bag she had thrice bludgeoned his head with to deter pursuit. (Bex had considered her a personal hero then, and more recently decided that if that girl was still alive and wandered into their encampment, she absolutely, positively, had to introduce her to Ronnie and see what happened.)

At the time, Rebecca hadn’t felt like she could rely on cape-wearing future FIFA superstars to follow her around like a beneficent stalker, so she decided to supplement the handful of self-defense classes she’d taken with something capable of a little more reach. The first two gun stores she’d visited treated her like a vapid little princess, even though she suspected she already knew more than some of the sales staff just from the YouTube videos she’d been perusing.

The third store was blatantly different as soon as she walked in. The stuffed bear in the corner creeped her out a little bit, but the lighting was vastly superior, the counters cleaner, and the employee who politely greeted her and returned to helping the prior customer was a world apart. As best as she could overhear, the little old lady at the counter had found herself embroiled in a legal dispute with a distant family member, and much like Rebecca, lived on her own. The salesman patiently explained safe handling procedures, legal requirements, and basic technology to the grey-haired granny. (Wasn’t there some song or stereotype about a grandma with a hand cannon in her purse?) Rebecca remembered flashing a few patient, approving smiles when he occasionally glanced her way apologetically, and eventually found herself receiving a similar level of service that she felt well-justified the independent small shop’s noticeably, but not unreasonably, higher prices.

The employee confirmed that some of the YouTube personalities had a few things right — and filled in some gaps that had left her with questions. Of note, he agreed that counter to what many might first assume, larger handguns were often more novice-friendly, because their heavier frames and longer barrels slowed recoil force and produced less muzzle flash than a tiny pocket pistol firing the same ammunition. Since she couldn’t carry it on campus anyway, Rebecca prioritized ergonomics. When the owner passed by, he offered to let her try some of their rentals for only the price of the ammunition she used. After trying a few different options, she discovered a slim 9mm that, when combined with an optional extended magazine that added both ammunition capacity AND another full inch of molded handgrip, just felt like The One as soon as she wrapped her hand around it.

It fit her so well that, once guided into a comfortable shooting stance and taught to not over-anticipate the recoil, she could point her index finger at a paper target, move it to squeeze the trigger, and hit somewhere "center mass" without looking at the faintly glowing sights. When she actually used those ("They’re on top for a reason,'' she quipped in honor of a comic panel she’d seen on Reddit…), she was reasonably competent out to about seven yards, which they assured her was a great baseline to start from. She could, also, cheat and use the laser sight nested in the handgrip, which improved her first shot speed and placement enough that she allowed herself an indulgent "pew, pew!" accompanied by an uncharacteristic giggle that she hoped no-one heard.

Her final purchase included a few extras of those extended magazines — she lacked the patience to hand-reload every ten rounds when practicing — and 50 rounds of a jacketed hollow-point that impressed the salesman she’d requested by manufacturer part number, since while perfectly legal, it was primarily marketed to law enforcement suppliers. Why should only cops get to have bullets that opened up to resemble jagged bi-color flowers? Or, "pretty little death blossoms", as the female shooting vlogger called them.

**

After everything was hastily packed, but double-checked, she looked out the window. Sunset was approaching. The streets looked navigable, though she saw a minivan run a red light and almost clip a sedan and compact hatchback. Sirens echoed from multiple directions, and when she returned to the front room, she heard the tail end of an Emergency Broadcast System alert buzzing. (Months later, she could still remember having the odd thought that she preferred the monotone "booooooop" from her childhood to the discordant electronic buzzer used by modern alerts.) She’d seen enough zombie flicks to agree with Jaime’s assertion that her neighborhood was too densely populated, and they needed to, as he put it, "GTFO".

Having watched footage of hurricane evacuations before she moved so close to the Atlantic coast convinced her that major highways would bog down fast. Jaime nodded over his shoulder at the mention of this, as they carried the last load of valuable gear and laundry baskets containing the nonperishables from her kitchen down the final flight of stairs to the garage. "Don’t worry, Bex. I know a place," he told her.

"Bex." He’d been the first one to call her that. It was weird at first, but she eventually came to like hearing him say it. She discovered an unexpected upside when people began to mishear it as "Becks", and assume it was her last name. She usually left them with that errant notion when she could, because she soon realized it saved her from quite a number of the "No relation…" disclaimers she’d habitually appended ever after moving within commute distance of D.C.

**

"Bex." Rhonda realized the girl must have wandered deeper down Bittersweet Memory Lane than usual. "We can call it a day now." She was right, too. Not more than five minutes went by before another series of coded radio clicks announced the approaching relief team. Rhonda disappeared briefly to put the safety pin back on the antipersonnel mine that guarded their rear one floor down. The relief team knew where the tripwire was, but the instructions on the mine’s curved front were limited to "FRONT TOWARD ENEMY." It wouldn’t know the difference between a clumsy mistake and a skulking threat. Bex still kept an eye on their assigned observation arc as she slid off the two steel desks that formed her shooting platform, even though shift changes were staggered by team — and the sequence rotated frequently. Like those old self defense classes taught her — vary your patterns. Predictability is risk. She couldn’t remember an exact quote from her Eastern Philosophies elective… but it seemed like something Sun Tzu would approve of.

Familiar voices approached, and she stretched the aches from her stiff legs in preparation for the trip down nine flights of stairs to the basement and access tunnels. Ronnie gave her a gentle half-smile when Bex realized her necklace was out, hastily stuffing it back inside of her vest and clothing before the other team could see it.

**

Most of the settlement’s vital areas were tucked into the small cluster of buildings around the underpass, or underground in the utility tunnels and nearby basements. There was even a dark corner behind ample yellow "Police Line DO NOT CROSS" tape. Not even the de-retired cop who played tour guide earlier in the day was going to enforce it. But, they needed something to warn the unknowing or reckless away from the chained and heavily, explosively, trapped hatch leading to the subway line below. Nobody knew who or what was down there these days, and some smartass had scratched "Drums, drums in the deep…" into the nearby wall, but most knew it was one of their last ditch bug-out routes. The caution tape was anachronistic, but it served to warn wanderers there were better places to seek a little privacy in the urban cave system.

Bex only spent a few moments down below, dropping her gear at the armory or her bunk as appropriate. She soon made her way topside, her radio handset and pistol still wedged into the pockets of her scavenged military cargo pants. There were a few familiar faces amongst the garden beds and solar panels nestled into the sunken expressway, most of which resulted a weary smile or polite nod. The National Guard kid... Patrick? Kevin? Something wholesome and vanilla like that. Either way, he fell in beside her for several yards. All she could remember later was a tale from the afternoon’s new arrivals about an influx of gang and militia activity in the neighborhood they left, and hoping PatKevin didn’t have a crush on her or something. She was too dirty and tired and distracted as things were. He should find himself some nice urban farmgirl in distress to have babies with. Or maybe the redhead electrician girl. Sam. That name at least she could remember through the fugue, after a stern lecture on how to NOT blow up the propane bombs hidden in the car wrecks on the northern and southern approaches unless she really, really wanted to. (It was just that one time, and that recent group of incoming couch potatoes became much more enthusiastic about their general labor tasks "while other people just sat around with guns.")

She reached her destination of the shade of the bridge otherwise unbothered by social interaction. Who knew what deities there were looking down, but she wished their benedictions upon whoever had designed the community showers. With the bean and cucumber entwined privacy trellises, six individual stalls with two sets of scavenged shower curtains apiece, and their minty "all natural, all organic, homemade soap and shampoo products", she could almost trick herself into imagining it was a pre-apocalyptic spa. Toss in the black drums up on the overpass that usually brought the water up to a civilized temperature, and it was a little pocket of bliss in the otherwise truly fucked-up world. The stalls all had independent hoses snaking down from the drums, but Bex was convinced that the stall with the improvised perforated orange plastic bucket out-performed the scavenged "real" showerheads, given the mediocre water pressure.

That meant choosing the stall with a dinosaurs n’ rocket ship shower curtain for the changing nook, and grandmotherly rose print between the small bench and the shower proper. Bex made sure that the volume on her radio was up, and left it, her pistol, and her bundle of clean(er) clothes on the bench. Boots went underneath, and socks tucked into them for later scrubbing… the amount of walking everyone did these days, you didn’t half-ass on your footwear. The fatigues would last at least another couple of days if she didn’t tromp through any muck, so those went on a handy hook. (And, by hook, she meant a protruding nail just high enough that most people probably — probably! — wouldn’t accidentally get tetanus from it.)

Everything else — t-shirt and underwear — stayed on for now, because by combining the water allocations between bathing and laundry, she could twist the mechanical timer sitting on the wall to a positively luxurious ten minutes... but she was too bone dead tired to hold up soggy fabric freehand. She lathered up her hair and let the suds run down. After her clothes were soaked and soapy, she peeled them off with a groan, rinsed them, and slapped them wetly over the PVC pipe someone had added to the wall as a handrail.

With the time she had left, she let the water run guilt-free into the sand and charcoal filtered grey-water irrigation supply, and for just under four minutes, she finally managed to think of absolutely nothing at all.

**

"Home" didn’t really have an official name. Most people just referred to it as "Broadway" or "the underpass", or both put together. They were a static, defensible position though, so that got them a label on someone’s map of "Civ. Settlement, Distr. 3". She supposed Sharpies needed to be conserved too. That esteemed title meant what was left of the US military — they’d seemed to condense into one overarching task force — periodically dropped by. Once in a while it was some random corporal — once even a lieutenant — staying for a few weeks as a "liaison officer". They’d "assess their tactical and logistical situation" and leave a few cases of MRE rations, first aid supplies, and occasionally a bottle of antibiotics. 50/50 it had a label from a veterinary clinic. More often, their guests were a small squad that needed to sleep somewhere they could actually close both eyes. The local moonshine would usually trade for a packet of seeds or a clean pair of kid shoes they’d picked up along the way. She’d frequently hoped the folks in camouflage didn’t go blind from the hooch — some simply didn’t care that it also worked as an industrial degreaser.

Bex had been pretty entertained by how surprisingly well a former short-order cook was suited to supplementing government supplies with "local agriculture and forage". Small vegetable and goat cheese omelets and "country" potatoes didn’t really seem like apocalypse food, and things like that often paired with half of an MRE or a scoop of rehydrated rice and/or beans as the evening meal. She’d told Trent it kinda took the shine off of "breakfast for dinner", which earned her a sad chuckle at the time, and ongoing dividend of him regularly demanding she find him a waffle iron. She thought the intact residential coffee maker she’d found would be a hit, and buy her some slack, but when a patrol got lucky and struck dark roasted gold everyone seemed to appreciate it but him.

Tonight was no exception as she idly flipped through a tattered library book about historical agriculture he’d been reading. "Look, all I’m saying is that we’re at least managing Industrial Revolution levels. We should embrace our accomplishments."

"It tastes like it was filtered through a sock!" Trent’s retort came over his shoulder from where he worked the stovetop.

"Bandana, technically. I told you any one of us can wash the filters for you!" When "exasperated" was above-average morale, someone smarter than her really needed to think of something soon.

He paused his cooking and turned to smirk at her. "No, only I am qualified for this burden you have laid at my feet. I’m the only one here trained to a professional level in food safety."

Bex’s eye roll was epic. "Teach me, oh master. Your skills are too valuable to the community to risk losing!" (She wasn’t too far off; nobody looked forward to a future of bare salads and boiled eggs.)

"I fear it is too late for you, padawan. Your age makes you too set in your ways." Trent used Smugness. It is super effective! 

She was pretty sure he was barely out of his teens. "Oh, fuck you. Does our resident constable know of your budding underage alcoholism?"

"The minimum drinking age put forth by the current ruling government is… let’s see… 404 NOT FOUND!" He waved his hands around in mock panic.

"Oh, get off my lawn, you anarchist…"

"Glad to. Get one first and lemme know." Again, with the smirk. Trent knew he’d won this round, and Bex shoved her empty tray across the counter hard enough to bump his elbow off the edge where he’d started leaning on it. Everyone knew resorting to physical violence meant you’d lost the verbal jousting match, but seeing him stagger made her feel better.

"Service in this joint sucks," she muttered as she rose to leave.

"You’ll be back! They all come back, I’m the only game in town!"

Bex couldn’t let him have the last word as she yielded the field. She turned and walked backwards for a few steps so she could flip him off and call him a monopolistic asshole. As she stalked off to have Ronnie show her how to take apart a gun or something, anything but stick around for more grilling (pun not intended), his voice reached her with a final riposte. 

"Fascist!"

She pretended not to hear, but called him several more things under her breath. Between dating an ex-gang-member and galavanting around the end of the world with a formerly oppressed veteran, she had some pretty colorful metaphors in her arsenal.

**

A few hours later found Bex in her bunk. The room was dark, and the soft susurrations of two reasonably quiet snorers mixed with the background voices outside, reminding her of waves on a shoreline. She wondered for a minute if places like Madagascar or Haiti managed to quarantine themselves in time. She couldn’t bring herself to hope for Hawaii — tourist traffic probably ruined things out there even faster than the most militant of sovereigntists could have feared. Haiti didn’t seem like it would get too much traffic, and they sure deserved a break after getting creamed with hurricane after earthquake after hurricane.

A tremble in her hands brought her attention back to the items in her lap. Muscle fatigue? Or had some part of her mind not wandered off as far as it kindly could have? She sighed, with one last little diversion into wondering if she’d actually take any again if someone found her a truckload of Effexor some day. An LED flashlight hung from a hook — again, just a nail she’d managed to drive into a crack in the concrete wall. Behind the clothesline-draped sheet alongside her cot, the soft glow of its lowest-power setting was still enough to see by once her eyes adjusted (something something "visual purple" something high school biochem). Her vision still blurred occasionally until she rubbed the back of her hand furiously across them. She was just tired, dammit. She was not fucking crying. Two pages of paper lay atop her recently washed t-shirt. Its university logo had almost completely worn away, and there were a few stains she’d never get out without a return to twenty-first century domestic technology. But, it was reasonably clean, and she was terrified there would be gun oil on her fingertips or under her nails, even after her Lady Macbeth impression at the utility sink.

The two sheets of paper in front of her were both sketches. The oldest had at least been inked in for submission to Jaime’s spring art class, but the second was still only pencil. Pencil sharpened by rubbing it on concrete. They were the first and last drawings of her by Jaime’s hands. Both were at least roughed in before she knew he was making them. A couple of her girlfriends thought that was voyeuristic and a little creepy, but she knew about some of their Snapchat antics and he’d told her one day that he wanted to capture the candid, unposed moments.

The first was some unremembered lazy weekend morning, sleeping peacefully with only her head and one shoulder out from under the covers. He’d drawn it sitting in her desk chair, so most of the view was really the piles of pillows and comforter. But, she’d always marveled at the level of detail in the embarrassingly tousled bed hair — would a little artistic license been so bad? Flowing locks worthy of a conditioner advertisement could have still complemented all of the work he put into the texture of the cotton racerback top she’d slept in that weekend, and the shadowing where the shirt’s hem followed the curve of her shoulder blade. 

It had taken a few drawings for her to ask why he never drew an angle that showed her face, and he replied that he didn’t think he was good enough to do it properly. It was a bit of a line, for sure, but credit where due, it got both of their shirts off on the couch until the pizza delivery rang.

The other precious sketch preserved the image of her sitting with her chin on and her arms around her knees, next to a low fire in a fifty-gallon steel drum. The flames did not reach the top, and the inward facing surface had been bashed in and curled back to let the heat radiate into the room. She remembered the tinted and smoked windows in that unfinished suite, and the smoke’s path up to the next floor through the overhead HVAC ducting. Little if any of their light would be visible from the outside… outside where the graphite and cellulose version of her would forever gaze, never knowing that window showed her with callous prescience where she’d lose him.

No, that wasn’t right. Ronnie had been gently pushing her on this for months now. She hadn’t lost him. Those words helped her continue blaming herself. He had been taken from her. Ronnie was right, she couldn’t stop it. God knows she tried.

She’d gotten the fucker that did it, though. Killed him right there. But it was right in front of Jaime, before he was gone. She’d never wondered until now — had that made it easier for him? Knowing for those few moments, he’d been avenged and that she was safe? Or would he be saddened or appalled by what she did? She realized the only part she could assume with certainty was that he wanted her to be safe. She clung to that as she delicately set the pages aside beyond the curtain, switched off the LED light, and sunk down to lay on her back. She blinked repeatedly and glared up into the darkness until her eyes grew as heavy as her thoughts.

**

The next day was shaping up to be a mundane one — Bex and Rhonda were only scheduled to be on duty for the morning shift. This time the ladies were in a vacant condominium on the southeast corner of the intersection. The overwatch posts flipped towards the middle of the day, to minimize the time they faced direct sun. Easier to see from, better concealment. Each corner also had at least four locations, some split between buildings. Messed with the angles a bit, but a suave marksman from a patrol several months back used their radioman’s satellite uplink to download smartphone apps that could calculate offsets if any of their sentries got good enough for it to matter. Bex made it pretty clear his attentions weren’t going to lead to anything, but he seemed quite happy to just get to chat up a local girl while they nursed loose approximations of bad mojitos for the two hours it took their respective comms teams to pull down versions for both major phone brands to one of Broadway’s ("C.S. D-3’s") functional laptops for later side-loading. He bore little to no resemblance to anyone from her past and was inoffensive enough, so if anything, it just harkened back to a night out at the bars with her girls.

At least unit #712 had nice furniture. Their long guns sat ready on top of, or leaning against, the solid wood dining table they’d dragged in from #706 weeks back — she didn’t think she had any kind of body image issues, but there was no way in hell she was going to trust a glass table with her weight. Not to mention the occasionally very pointy bits of tactical gear or a gun! Her feet hung off the back by several inches when she was ready to shoot prone, but once they had parked the couch behind it, they had a top notch leather upholstered sniper nest where they could take comfortable turns peering through binoculars.

Ronnie returned from another lap of the condo and flopped down in the middle of the couch, closer than when they’d arrived. Bex handed over their better set of binoculars and tilted a few inches to rest her head against the solid shoulder next to her.

"How you doing over there, girl? I will respect your privacy, but don’t you lie to me." It occurred to Bex that Mrs. (Mama?) Ellis must have been both awesome and terrifying, given the mannerisms she’d passed down to Ronnie.

"Y’know. The usual." Bex stomped one of her booted feet resting on the table against its edge, jostling everything atop it. "I don’t want to make you sick of hearing me repeat the same B.S. over and over."

Rhonda was a sympathetic soul, but not given to undue coddling. "Hey now. It’s not the table’s fault. It’s just holding stuff up and the floor down. Do you think I should let people blame me when you’re all grumpy or mopey?" She shifted her weight back and forth enough to jostle the younger woman’s head against her shoulder, and continued before Bex could respond. "You need to raise some shit about it again. Lassart’s been 'we don’t have anyone else who can do it, just hold out, it’s only temporary, everyone’s had to adapt’-ing you long enough." 

Again, she plowed ahead before Bex could try to mitigate or defer. "Not that I’m trying to get rid of you, the whole sad eyed killer-of-men thing is quite chic these days. All the latest fashion trend. But you’ve literally been carrying your fucking cross with you all over. Make his dumpy hammer-swinging ass come up here for days on end. I’ll beat some proficiency and basic tactics into him… or teach him some new vocabulary words like 'defenestration'."

Bex chuckled dryly. "He’d take too long, those poor mooks out front deserve better than worrying about getting shot in the ass. Plus, he’s nearsighted as fuck."

"Pfft. It’s got a diopter adjustment for a reason. And, I can be mighty motivational."

Bex snorted and let out an intentionally overdramatic sigh. "Ugh. Fiiiine. Maybe we can find some glass bottle bottoms to tape to the ends of the scope. I guess I can try bringing it up again. You just like that there’s a word for 'throwing something out of a window'."

"The old world left us with a few gems, y’know. It’s our moral duty to preserve them. Just remember, I can beat his ass or I can beat yours." Both of them were silent for a while. "You know I love you, honey."

"Yeah, I…" Bex started to reply.

"And not like that. I’ve told you before, you’re too stringy for my tastes."

Classic Ronnie. No talking about serious feels for more than three seconds. "Have you seen what we’re all eating? Malnutrition is the new black. But you know what they say about doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different outcomes, right?"

"'Meh', as you kids say these days. It’s the end of the world as we know it. If you’re not insane you’re a fucking idiot."

Bex merely toasted that last sentiment with the canteen next to her and took a swig. Why was everyone harping on her age?

**

Rebecca used the basket she was carrying to shove the fire door Jaime had been holding with his foot until she got there, and then hustled ahead to get the key fob in her pocket close enough to the car before he’d nudged the button on the tailgate. He stacked duffles and tote bins while she gathered and coiled the charging cable for the little plug-in hybrid CUV, but Rebecca paused and blinked when she opened the rear door to shove it under a seat. He’d finished loading the back, and was pulling an aluminum baseball bat — her original bedside security system — from amongst the pile. He paused too, and managed to look apologetic and quizzical with the same little shrug.

She returned the gesture. "I guess I’m just not used to the idea everything’s going to hell in a handbasket. Yet here I am with a gun," which she patted in the pocket of her dark blue hooded pullover. "I should be glad I’ve got some muscle along. But… I don’t know if you should drive, or me? I mean… if I have to shoot someone…"

Jaime reached over and squeezed her shoulder when her voice trailed off. "Hopefully it won’t come to that. But you should drive, it’ll be faster if I have to get out and move anything out of the way."

She placed her hand on his and nodded before they closed up the rear and slid into the front seats. As she tucked the pistol in to the center console, she hesitated. "Look… uhm… I know you said you never seriously hurt anyone… but you know how to use it?"

Jaime nodded. "I couldn’t put it back together or anything, but yeah, well enough if we need to. Safety’s on, right?"

"Yeah." She tried to hide her embarrassment over the blatant inquiry about his past. "One already in the chamber, ten each."

He touched the back of her hand as she moved it from the Start button to the gearshift. "Are you gonna be ok?" His expression told her he thought it was a stupid question, but it still made her feel better.

"I mean, I hope we all are." She inverted her hand so her palm was against his, squeezed his fingers, and then reached away to jab the garage opener button above. Dusk was deepening through its final gradients as she pulled out onto the street, and she thought the yellow sodium vapor streetlights gave the neighborhood a sickly pallor. The local roads were open, about as busy as a heavy commute, but she could see the panic in people’s driving. The collision / proximity warnings in her car were practically apoplectic with dismay, their frantic beeping occasionally a clashing accompaniment for the EAS tones blatting over Jaime’s hunt for the local news station. Eventually she decided scraped bumpers were the least of anyone’s problems and turned them off. The little bit of extra ground clearance came in handy as she clambered over or tiptoed along curbs to squeeze into the turn lanes at stoplights that were mostly still being obeyed.

Meanwhile, Jaime explained he remembered one of those "mixed use" apartments-over-shops developments that went bankrupt when the real estate bubble last popped. The exterior construction had been completed, and one or two of the buildings even had power and running water in the more utilitarian areas that were further along than the rental spaces. It was apparently a great place to drink and smoke a few years back, and last he heard, the whole property was still tied up in litigation. Yay, lawyers!!

They weren’t surprised that the clusterfucks at Costco and Wal-Mart were visible from blocks away. Jaime and the car’s GPS finally agreed on some side roads, and they turned into a comparatively sane parking lot for a convenience store. Stock was starting to dwindle, but they purchased several bottles of water and electrolyte drinks, two of motor oil, their remaining stock of toilet paper, several pre-made sandwiches, and two fistfuls of candy, because if the world was ending, she was getting some fucking chocolate out of it. They managed a few hundred bucks of "cash back" from the register and withdrawals from the ATM, and Jaime thought to double back and buy several lighters and an armload of cigarettes. In a few weeks, he expected them to be as valuable as coffee.

He later pointed to a hardware store that still had a lit "Open" sign, even as two people were covering the windows with plywood. Inside, he set off in search of bolt cutters, a sledgehammer and crowbar, and tarps. Rebecca felt too guilty to take all of their emergency candles, and compromised with herself on nine, half of their stock. She thought she heard Jaime clattering around a few aisles over as she wandered down the hand tool section, trying to think back to her father’s big fire engine red toolbox. She supplemented one of those basic household tool sets in a plastic case with a better crescent wrench, vise grip pliers, a multipurpose hand saw, socket set, hand drill and bits, and, what she felt most clever about, a set of extractors for stripped or security bolts and screws. She passed by the hatchet (because they had one in the camping gear) on the way back to the register, and beamed proudly at Jaime when he raised his eyebrows and nodded appreciatively at her basket. 

When she looked questioningly at the two cans of spray paint he added to the stack on the checkout counter, he held up the yellow one and said, "Please see us." He repeated the gesture with the black can… "Please don’t see us." 

Once she figured out the odd brass fitting would connect the garden hose she was also apparently the new proud owner of to a standard sink faucet, it made much more sense, like the two boxes of garbage bags. The chains and padlocks… well, kinky. They were probably going to have a lot of time on their hands, but she was sure he had a less prurient use in mind.

The elderly man at the register insisted on cash (… there went over half of what they’d just gotten…) and look bemused at the amount of implied breaking and entering in their future — but seemed to approve of the extractor set she’d thought to grab, as he held it up briefly with a chuckle.

Their final stop was a target of opportunity, one of three bank ATMs that still had enough cash for both of them to hit their daily limits. Rebecca was pretty certain that any more stuff would require expanding to a wagon train, but shut down that line of through the she remembered the casualty rates in her childhood games of Oregon Trail. Nope nope nope.

By the time they reached the outskirts of the urban sprawl, the radio was grimly reporting martial law in New York, air and ground transportation shutdowns, and lockdowns of federal facilities as D.C.’s confirmed cases started to mount. Every gas station they passed was a madhouse— she pointedly made eye contact with Jaime and clicked the hybrid mode switch to prioritize all-electric drive after the first one. Still, they coughed up $100 to the guy selling five-gallon cans at a stop sign like they were flowers, produce, or lemonade.

It was around 10 PM when they finally reached the derelict site. She drove around it, first a block or two out, and then shut off her headlights and did it again up close. Jaime pointed her to the same gate she’d spotted herself, and hopped out when she nosed up to it, with the bolt cutters in hand. She lowered her window and leaned out when she saw him tilt his head and pause. "What’s up?" (She tried to modulate her voice to only go the few get between them.) He picked up an already cut padlock at his feet and held it up, the shear marks fresh and shiny in her headlights, and she slid the center console open as he returned to his seat. "Looks like someone else had the same idea we did?"

"Yeah… I can’t think of anything better though, and there’s a ton of space to go around here… but if there’s something you’re sketched out by…" His voice trailed off, clearly not wanting to make the decision unilaterally.

She sighed and looked around. "Things are only getting worse out here. Did you see how many fresh tire tracks there were?"

"Just one set."

Rebecca pursed her lips in thought for a minute. She was tired, and the stress really wasn’t helping. "We have all this stuff… it’s going to turn into a target on our backs soon. Roll the dice in there just once… or every time we pass someone out here…"

"Yeah. I think we should get off the streets."

She nodded as Jaime slid back out to open and close the gates. "Let’s just walk soft." They took their time, happy to let the torquey little electric motor trundle them along at single-digit speeds, no louder than the gravel crunching under the tires. She failed to suppress a chuckle, and whispered, "I’m just wondering if we’re Elmer Fudd or the wabbit…"

After a quarter hour of being vewwy vewwy quiet, they spotted a small pickup truck in a below-grade loading dock. A dark haired woman in a plaid flannel spotted them too, and gestured in their direction from where she sat on the side of the truck bed, and the middle aged man with his back to them at the tailgate turned around. The area around the truck was lit up by a few lanterns, so on an impulse she hoped was correct, Rebecca reached up and turned on the cabin dome light. She waved tentatively and tried to look as non-threatening as possible. Just a ponytail-sporting college girl in a cutesy lil’ SUV, nothing to be alarmed by here... unless you’re bad people, in which case please note my big strong reformed criminal boyfriend… heh… uhm… so… hi?

She saw the couple confer for a moment, and then the woman waved back. Her companion made an exaggerated shrug in their direction. Ah. "We’re not supposed to be here either,” she translated mentally. Then he beckoned them down with three big gestures followed by a palms-out that could only be "stop". She arched an eyebrow, but then it clicked, and she flashed a thumbs-up and started rolling down the broad ramp. "Keep your germs to yourself." Got it. Right there with ya, best thing for everyone.

She sang softly for a moment. "… burn the land, boil the sea, you can’t take the sky from me…"

Jaime looked over. "Uh, baby? What?"

"Heh. Sorry. Nothing. Just… never mind." This did not help his confused expression. (Six years later, sitting at a meal among fast friends, finally comfortable in her own skin again, she would interrupt the conversation with an outburst of profanity, wondering what had possessed her to invoke Joss Whedon — rest his comedic but unromantic soul — while she was in a happy relationship.)

They parked a respectful distance way — Rebecca decided to turn around and back into the dock, either for offloading, or any future hasty exit. That put her door towards the strangers, but she didn’t think about it until she was about to step out. Oh well, it’d probably help with the whole friendly new neighbor vibe. She motioned for Jaime to leave the bat, but slipped the gun into her hoodie pocket — with a diligent check of the safety position.

It seemed everyone silently agreed that ten feet or so was a good distance to talk without getting too loud, but be outside of coughing range. The other gal sat on the edge of the dock while everyone else formed a rough square off of her as the first corner. Appropriate enough since the initial conversation was definitely something of a dance.

"Hey there." Mr. Pickup Truck Man took the first step, but didn’t supply any information.

"Evening. What a mess huh? I’m Jaime, and this is my girlfriend, Bex." Ah. Now the men have both done the requisite defensive but nonaggressive chest thumping.

"Rebecca," she said with what she hoped was a friendly smile. "Well, I guess Bex is fine too. Where are you from?"

"Downtown," chimed in the other female dance partner. "I’m Allison, but I guess Allie is fine." 

Bex caught the little smirk in her direction. Ah. Linguistic mirroring. Now the women were initiating social bonding. "I’m from over by the university, on the south end of things. Way too many people over there, you know? Didn’t seem like a good place to stick around." She moved her eye contact to the man who’d spoken first to indicate it was his turn again.

The dance was clearly going smoothly so far, he was definitely starting to relax. "Leonard. And, yeah. They kind of skip the 'evaluate your surroundings' part that should come before 'shelter in place'. I used to live a few blocks up the road when this place broke ground."

Jaime raised his hand and then moved it to rub the back of his head sheepishly. "Juvenile delinquency."

Leonard chuckled. "Well kid, as long as it wasn’t you throwing eggs in my neighborhood on Halloween, it’s all good. We all gotta get into a little trouble somewhere."

"No sir, never thrown eggs at anyone’s house. Or car. That I didn’t know personally, anyway."

"Heh. Works for me. You’re young enough our troublemaker years wouldn’t have overlapped. Looks like you two stocked up pretty good. Do you have masks for yourself?"

Rebecca gasped and smacked her forehead, while Jaime pinched the bridge of his nose, below his glasses, in the background. "Shit. I have some first aid ones but nothing fancy… and that reminds me… shitshitshit…" She bolted back to the car door, hauled it open, and rifled through the center console for hand sanitizer, calling back to Jaime over her shoulder. "Babe, stop touching your face!" This was the first time the background dread turned into immediate fear, and she was almost on the verge of panic as she slathered her hands in fruity-smelling alcohol gel, ran back to Jaime and scrubbed his hands in hers, and painted it onto his nose and her forehead like it was sunscreen. A growling squeal of frustration escaped when she clung to his shirt and buried her face against his shoulder to mute a pair of sniffles and muttering about how stupid they’d been, before turning back to the others.

"Right, sooooo… as I was saying," Leonard continued. "You’d be best off with some of these P100 masks, if not a full respirator." He held up a box with a picture of disposable masks that was the size of a loaf of bread. "Once we all know none of us have whatever that shit is, we’ve got enough to share."

Both of the younger couple nodded their appreciation, and Rebecca sighed, a wave of exhaustion crashing down on her after the sudden emotion burnt out the rest of her reserves. Leonard eventually figured out how to use a chain pulley to lower the outer door of the dock, turning it into a wide, shallow garage. Conveniently, it looked like the area had been designed to accommodate a dumpster longer than either vehicle. While he worked on that, initially struggling against the mechanism that had sat unused for years, Allie set up a tent by their truck and Bex and Jaime stacked their belongings at their end of the dock. She was too far gone to figure out tent poles by lantern light, so they folded the car’s seats as flat as they would go — with the front passenger seat down, Jaime would more or less fit on that side, and if she either bent her knees and rested on the door, or tucked alongside him with her right leg against and her left crooked atop his, she’d be able to sleep, if not sprawl.

When Jaime took off his pants and shirt to slide into one sleeping bag, she tilted the sunroof up for ventilation, and locked the doors from the inside. Her own outer layers tossed into the driver’s seat, she pulled his discarded shirt on, slid her bra out through a sleeve, and tried to settle next to him.

Only a few minutes passed before she rolled halfway onto him, reaching for his face and started to kiss him with desperate abandon. He stiffened and pulled away, inhaling to protest, but she stopped him, guessing the source of his reluctance. "Hey. If one of us has it, we both already do. Everyone, and I mean everyone, is out of their depth right now, and I’m terrified. If we’re going to die I am not damned well going to do it afraid of touching you. I need something I’m not scared of, and since we met that’s always been you. Please, love…"

He didn’t answer, but she felt him relax and pull her closer. She started kissing him again, slower this time, savoring it and sighing at the touch of his fingers on her back, drowning her tension in the physical comfort until she could fade to sleep.

**

Rebecca woke reaching for Jaime, confused why it was so bright and breezy inside of a locked car, inside of an abandoned loading dock. Maybe he’d slipped out to start sorting gear, or exploring?

"Rise and shine, sleepyhead." A deep but gentle woman’s voice murmured at her as she blinked and tried to clear her vision.

Fuck.

Bex abruptly lifted her head from the back of the couch and put her face in her hands with a groan. "How long?"

"Only about half an hour," Ronnie replied, without judgment in her voice.

"Ugh… I shouldn’t have. You shouldn’t have let me!" Her confusion was rapidly replaced by self-consciousness.

Ronnie’s eyebrow arch could make enlisted question their life choices in a heartbeat. "You haven’t looked that peaceful in weeks, girl. If someone had tried to interrupt that I’d have just shot them myself. You can sleep through light machine gun fire, right? Wipe that drool off your cheek."

Bex couldn’t decide whether to pout or glare, so she tried for both.

"Don’t you give me that look…" Again with the channeling Mama Ellis. Bex gave up, staggered to her feet and paced to get circulation back in her legs. Dying of deep vein thrombosis contracted by falling asleep on duty, after surviving the early stages of the apocalypse, was pretty much the most embarrassing fate she could think of at the moment. At least she wasn’t in clown shoes. She returned after completing a half dozen laps, turning her back to the table and leaning on it. Mindful of the medallion against her sternum, she tugged the chain and held it to her lips for several seconds.

Her eyes were still closed when she quietly spoke. "I… I was dreaming about when Jaime and I first made a run for it. I know it wasn’t real, but seeing him again, feeling his hand on mine again… god…" She furrowed her brow and choked back a sob.

Rhonda sighed at her. "Honey… when the dead visit you… they always leave a chill. You’re never going to heal cuttin’ on your heart like this. Where do you start and all the scars end?"

"I’m sorry. I’m such a mess. I know you lost so many people in the Sandbox."

"So many. Too many. But that starts at just one. Once someone’s gone, they ain’t around to forgive you or tell you it’s not your fault that you’re here and they aren’t anymore. Those of us who are left have to do that… for them and for us. It’s a part of how we have to carry on for them."

Bex opened her eyes and saw Ronnie jabbing her trigger finger into her left palm with every point for emphasis, and tried to process the advice. Her friend could tell she was starting to get it when her eyes hardened. "Okay… okay." The medallion was still at her lips, but they were tight with determination.

Ronnie sensed an opportunity to nudge her past a tipping point. "So… what’re you going to do about Lassart and his bullshit?"

Bex met her gaze, tucked the amulet away, and set her clenched fists against the table at her sides. "You tell me, you’re supposed to be the expert in this part — when you stick your boot up someone’s ass, you’re s’posed to turn it sideways first, right Gunny?"

"Hah!" Ronnie slapped the couch twice, and then held up an authoritative finger. "You gotta make sure you get a mil-spec parade polish on it and shine it up real good too, if you really want to do it right."

The spark was back in Bex’s eyes. She hoped she could make Ronnie and Dwayne Johnson proud.

**

That afternoon, she meandered through the common areas, patiently watching for Lassart to appear. When she finally spotted him, she had been leaning against the base of a wooden watchtower atop the bridge long enough for the sunbeam she was luxuriating in to be replaced by the tower’s shadow. Thermally, she was fine with the change because the mitigating breeze that kept the sunshine comfortable had faded. It didn’t help the feeling that she was stalking him like prey, or like she should be watching him through a crosshairs. Ironic, that.

He was circulating the grounds, stopping to inspect a recently reinforced perimeter barricade, or gesticulate authoritatively at the group constructing another tiered vertical planter. As her eyes tracked him, she ticked through what she knew about him. (Was this more of a "she will win who, prepared herself, waits to take the enemy unprepared" thing, or more of a "if you know your enemy and yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles"? She decided on the former, thinking the second option to be a bit presumptuous while she still had so much shit to square herself away on.)

Former construction, with one of the larger commercial contractors in the region. Mid-late fifties, on-the-job back injury "promoted" him out of the hands-on roles, and he eventually worked up to a senior foreman position. Not really "elevated to the level of his incompetence", but definitely based his decision-making on what he knew. Has difficulty stepping outside his comfort zone, switching contexts. Trading physical activity for driving from place to place and bossing people around, while continuing questionable dietary choices from job site catering trucks, had added a spare tire or two to his originally hulking frame. And, lord knows he faced difficulty conceptualizing people outside of the original pigeonholes he mentally sorted them into like buckets of construction materials. She’d suffered managers like that before, but it’s not like she could touch up her resume and apply for a different apocalypse.

She refocused on him when he moved again. Based on how his next conversation participant was gesturing, Lassart’s sagely nodding was probably unneeded approval of the longer shelf life crops they’d recently seeded for the seemingly distant winter months. Trent had actually learned a few good recipes for butternuts and the like, assuming Lassart didn’t pop a vein and throw her out by then.

She glared his way for a few more seconds, then at the squat soft-sided shoulder case that held the front and rear halves of the "takedown" scout rifle side-by-side for compactness. It didn’t look like much of a cross, but Ronnie did have the right of it, and she’d as much as implied a promise to try throwing it down again. She sighed and hauled it up to her shoulder to find an ambush location with line of sight to his office door.

**

She didn’t shine her boots — talk about an exercise in futility — but she did cinch the laces tight when she decided nobody was waiting in line after the comms tech who’d left the office a minute before. She imagined her simmering ire nudging people from her path like the proceeding bow wave of an implacable ship until she reached the steel door and pounded a gloved fist on it. A quizzical invitation to enter followed a brief delay. Bex closed her eyes for a moment and whispered a reminder to herself, "honey than vinegar…" so she wouldn’t kick the door open. This was going to be a dance, just like… goddammit. Not now!

Peter Lassart’s office / quarters started as some kind of mechanized space. Ducts that didn’t carry a breeze anymore had been removed and repurposed, and a lopsided scrap of carpet, probably in the shape of a nearby apartment’s living room, covered most of the concrete floor. A hand-built frame provided a plywood countertop below the paper-plastered magnetic whiteboard it held upright, and the end of a cot stuck out from behind a pair of folding screens, probably appropriated from the entrance of a sushi joint. Lassart pivoted to face the door on a squeaky office chair when she entered (like a perfectly civilized person in complete control of her emotions, dammit) and rested his left elbow on the generic eight-foot folding table "desk" on the right-side wall. At least he didn’t have it in the middle of the room facing the door like a wannabe principal or CEO.

"Ah, Miss Clinton. 'Bex'. Should I save us a few sentences and assume you’re here about our traditional topic?"

She bit back a quip about how few traditions they had left, instead managing a laconic "Yup." She probably shouldn’t have plunked the gun bag down on the table quite so hard, rattling the metal frame. Hopefully the scope held its zero. "Mister Lassart — it’s been another month. We could have trained someone else by now."

There was the usual quasi-sympathetic sigh. "Simply being able to shoot what you’re told is not your only difficult-to-replace talent. I know it’s a burden, but you’ve proven you have a sense of when to shoot, too. You’ve saved several lives. I don’t know what helps you predict a stranger’s intention so far in advance of their action, but it’s a vital part of your contribution to this community."

Bex focused on her long term goal and managed to not clench her jaw. "So find me another college kid who was working on a kinesiology and psych double major, and I’ll give them a recommended reading list and play some poker with them when they’re not learning which end goes bang…"

He folded his hands in his lap, foreshadowing his next move. "This is not a kind world we live in. Every resource is in short supply, including people’s skills and talents. What we’ve built here is in a delicate balance, and any instability could bring it crashing down."

Bex sighed slowly. What the hell was he on about? "Peter. I know how valuable our community is. What you and the other cofounders have accomplished here is huge, amazing. I really mean that. But… if you want to talk about stability?" She shook her head and carefully paced her words. "If you want stable, I am SO not your girl. I know exactly what a shitshow my head is. Someone has to have said things to you by now. I’m the girl who can’t remember names because there’s a good chance everyone I meet will move on or die. I can’t do the group support sessions even though I tell everyone else to. Sometimes I wake up thinking it’s a year ago. I’m scared to drink a full mug of moonshine because I might fall apart, or dive in and never come out of the bottle. I almost punch the medics when they touch me. Did you know Sergeant Ellis had to do my last blood draw? I am NOT stable." She couldn’t stop the agitation from leaking into her tone now. "… and you think putting me in an elevated position with guns and an eight story drop is in everyone’s best interests?!?"

Now came the placating palms-out patting the air gesture. "I’m sorry it’s so hard for you. But we have to use the people and tools we have."

She couldn’t help pinching the bridge of her nose with a grimace. "Damn it, Lassart… Peter." Her tone took a brief plaintive turn when she said his name, but firmed up after a deep breath shifted the medallion just enough for the sensation to register. The memories cut deep, but sometimes they propped her up too. "I’m not some subcontractor plying their trade you can just tell the client wants so-and-so and the deadline is this and the code requires that. If you want to think about tools… a saw starts making a funny noise. You keep using it, it seems to still cut properly. It starts to vibrate. It stops cutting in straight lines. You keep using it. It’s the one you have and it’s been just fine in the past. A tooth snaps off when it hits a nail. It’s just one. Keep going. The blade fucking shatters at speed, destroys the saw from the inside out, and shreds the arm and face of the person using it!"

She thumped her fist on the rifle case. "This. Thing. Fucking. Killed. The man I loved, and you make me carry it day after day. I have to put my hands around it, cradle it to me, press my fucking face to it. I practically smear my hands in his blood again every time I touch it. Don’t you get what that does? Do you give a shit at all?!?" People in the large hallway outside could probably hear her. Fine. Good! Fuck them, let them hear what a single minded dick their ersatz leader is!

"Young lady…" Oh no the fuck he didn’t. Her eyebrow arched challengingly as he continued. "I’ve seen how good you are with that weapon. You were not the one holding it when he died. In the short time you were on your own before joining us, you took to it like a natural. It’s like it became an extension of your own body."

Her jaw dropped, speechless. She couldn’t articulate a coherent response. He went on. "And, if you think you are so unsafe in making your best possible contribution to this community, perhaps you need to rethink your place with us." He pushed the case back to where a fist braced her against the table.

"I... wha... " Her mind jostled free and finally rammed a fresh round into battery, and her tone steeled, the rest of her words came through clenched teeth as she scooped up the case and shook it for emphasis on her final words. "If this were a part of my body, I would cut it the fuck off, smiling the whole time even if I had to use a rusty butter knife to do it!!"

**

Slamming the door wasn’t mature or productive and she knew it. But, it made her feel better. The storage cabinet door that had been hanging open when she passed it probably didn’t deserve getting punched, and now her hand hurt, so that was a tradeoff. It also meant when she chose the punching bag under the bridge instead of the moonshine still, she was limited to throwing left jabs, elbow strikes, and knee blows. By the time she’d worn herself down to a smolder, she’d settled on kicking it as hard as she could, pacing in a small circle, and then repeating the process with the other foot.

Their months of self-imposed hermitage started out… surprisingly not so bad, really. Their initial explorations grew less tentative after the first two weeks, once everyone decided they’d all dodged infection. Their first priority was chaining most of the entrances closed form the inside. Some of the retail spaces were challenging with their glass fronts, but they figured out which service corridors to isolate by knocking off door handles or barricading them with construction detritus. Leonard and Jaime used the pickup’s hitch to tow one of those trailer mounted "lane closed merge right" signs back to "their" building, which they stripped for the solar panels and 12-volt batteries. Those were donated to a charging / inverter station, with the panels on one of the lower rooftops that protruded beyond the second floor corners, and everything else inside an adjacent window.

Each couple selected a semi-finished apartment on the third floor, far enough apart for privacy, but close enough to pool resources or socialize. By first snow, they both had fire barrels fed by segments of 2x4 or gathered firewood. They didn’t trust the municipal water’s potability, but it fed their filters and boiling efforts. When Jaime contrived a siphon system from a crude cauldron over the fire drum and ran the hose to their apartment’s bathtub, she practically ripped his clothing off — with a stop in the bath before the sleeping bags on their pallet-and-plywood sleeping platform. (One of a few reasons she was grateful for her IUD.)

In mid December, an employee of the construction company showed up, but once again he was simply looking for somewhere to stay. He disappeared two weeks later, taking some of his possessions but leaving his company truck. They searched all of the buildings on the site, and even topped her hybrid off with the solar panels to risk a tense sweep of the surrounding area. Rebecca wasn’t a devout follower of any particular faith, but still held Allie’s hands when the other woman wanted to say a prayer for his safety.

Other than that, their only guests were a few scares with unfamiliar door rattlers. Both couples had sent messages to local friends before phone service stopped working, but nobody they knew ever came.

Rebecca couldn’t bring herself to keep listening to the progressively sparser radio broadcasts, but Leonard did on his hand-crank flashlight/radio, and would share anything major. Apparently the federal government, as a whole, was crippled. But, some agencies in more isolated areas were managing to function regionally. The cold temperatures in Alaska and parts of Canada had limited social interactions, and thus slowed the spread of the apparently bioengineered smallpox virus. Scattered rural emergency services were expanding their efforts to neighboring towns, and even trying to push into footholds at major cities. Along with Alaska, at least three more state governments had managed a reasonable amount of continuity and were starting to offer assistance to counties across state lines. In a heartbreaking twist of irony, several of the most remote Native American reservations were now the most functional governments in their region.

Cuba’s lingering travel restrictions, and willingness to take a heavy hand towards its citizens, meant it was relatively intact. North Korea claimed their glorious science programs were triumphant, but inactivity across the DMZ didn’t seem to support that. Allie turned out to have a minor in International Relations, and got them all wondering what borders might be redrawn in a decade or two, if there were still people around to do it. 

Their initial supplies would probably last through the end of the year, but it became clear they were in for the long haul. Leonard heard an announcement for aid distributions, and the first yielded them some MRE’s and 50-pound bags of dry goods, but Rebecca had to draw down on a group of four men who tried to strong-arm her party and a nearby family of three on the walk back to where they’d hidden the car. Comments were initially made about a "little girl gun", but she pointed the lead thug’s attention to the red dot on the upper left side of his chest. Describing how even if she missed his heart, he’d drown in his own blood sufficiently punctuated the message sent by their Walking Dead-esque arsenal of sporting goods and construction tools.

The second distribution didn’t show up, and the third was clearly headed towards a riot by the time Rebecca and her companions beat a hasty retreat with their goods. The situation’s persistent decay eventually led them to accept the sad reality of looting abandoned residences and businesses — from the state of some locations they searched, other people had already begun such scavenging well before them.

When they braved a seemingly vacant mall for some "Christmas shopping", Rebecca and Jaime selected assorted winter wear for the other couple. They were hideously mismatched colors, but warm and appropriately sized. Leonard and Allie reciprocated with a snow globe and stack of books. Jaime gave her a pair of linked stud-and-cuff earrings, and she found a self-winding watch for him knocked behind the disarrayed shelves of a looted storeroom. They exchanged their gifts in the mall’s main atrium where the holiday decor had not deteriorated too far yet, and found some useful supplies left in the restaurant kitchens.

Unfortunately, Rebecca was in too carefree of a mood afterwards, and went overly fast through the stairwell door to the underground parking garage, where they hoped to collect fuel from siphoned vehicle tanks. She got four steps in, looking over her shoulder at the others, before the smell hit her at the same time she looked ahead of her again, and realized she was seeing hundreds, perhaps thousands of body bags, some tagged, many anonymous beyond the occasional government logo. She bowled past the others up the stairs to the ground floor, but tripped on the last step, where they caught up to her clutching her knee and doubled over retching. They avoided potential improvised morgues carefully after that, and she insisted on isolating herself from the others until she’d been asymptomatic for several days… masks from Leonard or not, the firsthand evidence of the scope of the plague fed her sense of fear well into the New Year.

Late in January, a little while after coaxing her from the self-imposed quarantine, Jaime led her to the fifth floor and told her to close her eyes. She expected to be surprised by something inside what would have eventually become a fancy two-story townhouse, but heard a sliding door and realize he’d taken her outside as the cool air hit her face. It turned out to be an interior courtyard, surrounded on all sides by two floors of building with an open sky. Several potted plants and small trees had been brought in to replace landscaping that was never completed, and a campsite had already been prepared. Jaime was immensely relieved when she gasped and jumped into his arms — it seemed she could access a spark of joy again.

Despite the lingering winter chill, she insisted on staying there the first few days until a storm chased them back inside. As the days lengthened into spring she told him it was like a little Garden of Eden walled off from all the horrors outside. Caring for the plants was a crucial respite for her, and the first sunburn when she fell asleep on a bedroll warmed by the midday sun was totally worth it. It just meant she put in most of the effort before they fell asleep under the stars that night and the next.

**

Bex was still thinking back to the warmth of the sun those days when the kitchen timer dinged in the shower. The water supply had started to cool after dusk, but the mild warmth and cool air was just right after the workout. She shut off the water flow mournfully, reflecting as she dressed that it was the closest she’d had to standing in the rain on a hot day, or lounging in a hot tub on a chilly night, in a very long time.

"HI!"

"Bwah!!" The exuberant greeting as she exited made her jump and almost drop everything.

"Hi!" Bex recognized her ambusher in the partial light as Sam, the excessively vivacious electrical wizard, with her flagrantly red asymmetrically parted hair — something between a long pixie cut and a short bob, slightly-pointier-than-fashionable nose, and consistently impish grin. She was standing on the other side of the half-wall trellis enclosing the "lobby" of the shower area, chin on her hand.

"I notice you didn’t apologize for startling me, Sam."

"Oh, Sparky." (Jeez. Cross the streams once on an ignition circuit and you never hear the end of it.) "You’re not the only one who can lie in wait for a target. Peter really should pay more attention to his surroundings. And read more about scorned women. He’ll live longer."

Bex had moved to the open-framed doorway and now leaned against it. Now that they were standing next to each other, Sam barely came up to her nose. "… saw that, did you?"

"Yup, you’re not subtle when you’re staring daggers. He just can’t sense danger well with his head up his ass." Sam tilted her head to one side, chin still propped up on her hand.

"Yeah, okay. Fair," Bex conceded. "Did Ronnie send you?"

"Nah, sweetie. Here of my own volition, motivation, and concern." Bex knew Sam was capable of knowingly weaponizing cuteness, but she hadn’t been targeted before. "It’s my expert opinion that you need to know someone appreciates you and what you do around here. And, that you’ll have a hard time accepting it, so I’m here to shove it in your face until you do. You CAN see things closer than a hundred yards away, right?" Sam moved decisively to pull Bex into a hug, surprisingly strong for her slight frame. She stood on her tiptoes to hook her chin on Bex’s shoulder. Bex really expected herself to stiffen, but was so tired, her guard was so depleted. She just didn’t know what to say, but she let out a long, deep sigh and put her free arm around Sam and her too-large coveralls.

Sam’s tone softened. "I know you hurt, Sparky. I know you’ve lost so much. We all have, but not the way Peter says it. I’m not judging. I’m telling you that you are in no way alone in your loneliness. You have to know people love you. Hurt and grief and cleverness and dedication and sarcasm all." Sam pulled her head back to make solid, inescapable eye contact, and Bex had the thought that if this had happened to three-years-ago, sufficiently drunk Rebecca, she’d probably have tried to kiss the girl. "You are loved. Remember that, especially when you’re feeling lost and dark and cold." Yup. Definitely would have. Fortunately Sam returned to full throttle and dispelled the moment. "Now, Sparky. Have you eaten tonight?"

Bex sighed. "No… probably not enough. I’m about to lose any say in the matter, aren’t I?"

"You know it! It’s like you’ve been paying attention. I’m SO proud!" Sam squeezed her tighter again for a moment, then hooked onto Bex’s free arm and put her disproportionate strength into towing her hapless captive towards the nearest access door.

Rhonda was leaning against the wall next to it. Bex shot her an openly accusing look, but Ronnie held up her hands placatingly. "Hey, just because I was coming to do the same thing doesn’t mean I was involved in her doing it! Hey Sammie, thanks for taking care of that for me, now I can put my feet up for the evening."

Bex’s glare didn’t abate as Sam pulled her bundle of shower stuff away and passed it over. "Hey, before you relax, take care of this, will you, Sarge? Don’t want her to have any excuses." Rhonda met her partner’s glare all the way through the door with a triumphant grin. It dissolved into paroxysms of silent laughter when she heard Sam cheerfully instruct her charge to come along quietly now, and to not make her go build a cattle prod from a taser, two coat hangers, and duct tape as the door drifted closed behind them.

**

Bex really began to contemplate Sam’s tactical sensibilities. No wonder she helped construct so many of the defensive traps. She probably had an adorable babydoll tee with "When in doubt, C4" printed on the front.

These thoughts started to bubble together when, after she pushed an empty stew dish away, Sam promptly shoved the portion allegedly for her own consumption over to replace it. Suspicion started to bloom when Bex retroactively realized that Sam had accepted every seasoning that Bex had politely passed over after she used it, and there had been a whole lot of idle stirring… but looking back, no point where Sam’s cheerful small talk about radio upgrades, trading for components, and remote triggers and alarm circuits ever stopped for a spoonful. Did gregarious nerds ever waste the opportunity for an entertainingly distracting anecdote or clever quip, or did Sam’s electrical mastery include absorbing chemical potential energy through a metal spoon and some sort of electrolysis? But how, with only one conductor, not two?

Her hunch that Sam intentionally let others underestimate her redoubled when Bex realized she’d been shepherded to a bench with a waist high steel shelf (Again with the conductive materials. Was that the secret to her superpowers?) directly behind it, which Sam moved to perch upon after being sure the second serving had been properly capitulated to.

Bex had not had her hair brushed and braided like she was a six year old at a tea or slumber party since… well, she was EXACTLY LEGAL DRINKING AGE at a mimosa brunch six months before the fall of mankind. But she was sure on the receiving end of it again now. She’d made the practical decision to grow all of her hair, the ambiguous brown-blonde of a light hardwood, to just past collar length in the absence of continued sunscreen manufacturing. Some aggressive layering came recently in a concession to the heat. Sam continued her very intentionally upbeat not-prattle while experimenting with different styling options, the first three of which supposedly had turned out unsatisfactorily and required an entirely fresh start.

If Sam noticed Bex slow her eating and unconsciously slump microscopically into the electrician’s lithe little hand at the base of her neck, she had the good grace — or cunning — not to comment on it. Bex started to think it was as if Sam was pumping her own broadcast into a saturated channel to drown out less pleasant background thoughts, allowing them zero airtime, and now that she’d established a successful, unprotected hardline connection, she was sending as much positive current into it as she could for as long as she could hold it open.

Refusing to allow the link to drop certainly explained the hooked arm all the way to the mess area, and the foot kicks and elbow nudges sprinkled into points of emphasis during the first half of the meal. She wondered if Sam was somehow going to toss electrical pixie dust over a nearby refrigeration unit and conjure a pint of ice cream to top things off, but apparently the next mix-in for the evening’s cocktail was 5’8" of smug, honorably discharged Gunnery Sergeant with a twist of mischievous grin, because every good ambush needed a pincer attack, even if it was serendipitous.

Ronnie sat down across from Bex, just grinning at her while she finished eating and was subjected to Sam’s gentle ministrations. When Bex set her utensil down a second time, she reached across the table to squeeze Ronnie’s hands, and blinked and smiled her gratitude. Ronnie simply smiled back, and moved her left hand to pat the back of Bex’s, where it sat atop her right.

Bex decided the compulsory pampering was all worthwhile to see Sam pull Ronnie into the conversation and turn in it inexorably to what could only be considered "girl talk". Even if it was another complex ploy, she grinned and appreciated that Sam had some sense of fairness in her antics.

Next thing she remembered, they were several shots deep into a game of "Never Have I Ever", and Sam seemed doggedly determined to drink them both under the table.

**

Bex woke the next… or later that same… morning both appreciating and regretting that she’d be off duty until mid afternoon. Grateful to have time to recover from a hangover, dismayed she’d allowed herself to be talked into the final ounces of revelry because "we all get to sleep in tomorrow!" She uncharitably hoped Sam had to look at some circuitry under a bright light, because she distinctly remembered that argument being submitted with a level of enthusiasm not possible from Ronnie or herself.

She eventually squinted her way towards Trent’s domain for sustenance. His prescribed scramble of something something give me food already blah blah seemed to do the trick as she gradually recognized she was capable of polysyllabic thought again. With that, the regions of her brain labeled "situational awareness" became accessible, and she quickly (for being hung over) glanced around for lurking electricians. It would be just like Sam to be ready to pounce with a (painfully) bright smile, but the coast was clear.

However, the surprising clump of people at the other end of the underground utility vault gradually registered. Lots for that time of day. More coming. Multiple voices overlapping at once (to her wincing discomfort). Agitated. Grim. Curious. Accusatory. Defensive. Diplomatic. Authoritative. Bingo. Someone who knew something. Maybe. She grit her teeth for the inevitable pain and rose.

Evolutionary conditioning of the visual cortex for increased sensitivity towards bright colors, movement, and hard edges helped her spot Sam near the fringes, despite her thick case of mindfog. She sidled up gingerly… (Heh… ginger. Because redhead, heh. Owww… even laughing only mentally hurts.)

Sam made a little room for her in the throng and nodded a greeting. "Hey, how’re you doing?"

"Ow. Pain. Your fault." Bex gestured at her own head. Ok, so polysyllabic thought, but not speech yet.

"You’re welcome, Sparky. You needed it!" Sam hooked arms again companionably. Bex made a noncommittal sound, and was just glad not to be suddenly placed under tow. She managed to blink a few more mental cobwebs away.

"Any idea what’s up?" Use of a contraction. Progress.

"Something about a couple of missing people, should have been back last night. Can you see anything from up in the clouds there?"

"Actually… I can." Most of the settlement’s undeployed firearms skill was at the front of the crowd, concentrated around a bad comb over. Lassart. "We should get up there."

Sam nodded and began using her nimble size to slip into small gaps in the crowd and widen them for Bex, like an Arctic icebreaker. Yeah, that fits, Bex thought. Direct, irresistible... er, um, implacable. That. Engine output disproportionate to size. Maybe being towed under someone else’s power wasn’t too bad under safe speeds that her inner ear could manage right then.

The little tugboat that could coasted to a stop abeam Gunnery Sergeant (Retired) Ellis. Ronnie turned her head and quietly caught them up. "Two missing. Kids expected back night before last."

Bex interrupted. "Kids?!?" Why was the response effort so slow?

"Sorry. Kids, your age." Ugh. Always with that, but not the time to make a stink. "Ran off afternoon before last. Folks figured maybe they’d found somewhere to shack up for the night, get a little fun in. But they’re not back today either."

"Ugh. So many things could have happened…" Bex felt Sam’s grip on her arm tighten at hearing her words.

"Yeah. Coup’la fireteams were already prepping to self deploy, but I think Pete wants to feel he voluntold us. Rallied the troops and all that."

Hrmph. Sure, she could see the benefit of a coordinated search, but some people were not net-adds to a situation. Lassart stopped conversing with two people next to him and spoke up. "Alright everyone. So the two community members, a young man and lady, have been gone about 36 hours. Search parties are to be dispatched ASAP. Check out known outlying facilities first, then popular hangouts for the younger generation — including ones from Before. Current guard teams will need to stand a double-watch. Odd numbered teams on the search should plan to be back by sundown to rest and then relieve those on post."

Well. Look at all the tactical words he’s picked up. "Even numbered teams in the first wave are to return at sundown tomorrow, overlapping with teams on guard duty now, who will deploy in the morning. They will relieve today’s odd numbered teams, and then we will revisit next steps based on any news. If I didn’t make it clear enough, teams off duty are being recalled. I apologize for the strain this will cause you, but duty literally calls."

"Ugh. It’s like we need more reserves for bench depth. And we’d go without the speech." Bex tried not to visibly roll her eyes as she muttered, and multiple nearby heads nodded or quietly "coughed" to hide amusement in her peripheral vision.

"Did you have something to add, Ms. Clinton?"

Oops. "Yes, thanks. What’re their names, do we have any photos, and are we using dedicated channels for comms?" Sorry bud. Faking your way through on-the-spot teacher interrogations while hungover is (…was…) pretty much a basic survival skill in college.

"Ah. Yes. Err… we are looking for Pat Elroy and Chris Stanton… yes, what now?"

Bex lowered her hand. "Thanks again. Can you tell us which one is the guy vs. the gal? Do we know what they’re wearing?"

Lassart stumbled for a moment. "Look, pictures and any relevant information will be posted at comms and outside the armory." He looked away to someone she couldn’t see. "Search specific comms will be on preset channel 9 for general traffic and orders. Use 12 for coordinating locally with other nearby assets in the field." He turned and beelined for his office.

Rhonda held up her end of a fist bump without even turning to make eye contact with Bex, and Sam frantically tugged at Bex’s arm. "Ohmygod that was so awesome, Sparky!"

Bex smirked contentedly, like a cat with a feather in her teeth. "Did you hear that, girls? We’re ASSETS now."

**

So, apparently, National Guard kid, otherwise and henceforth known as David, and Ex-Cop, alias Barry, both had relevant experience — search and rescue, grid searches, manhunts, and impositions upon civil rights (oops, inside voice INSIDE VOICE). Bex genuinely hoped that now they had been named, they would not go the way of Lieutenant Suchandsuch in the red shirt, or Officer McTwoWeeksTilRetirement.

Pat’s absence was first thought conspicuous by HIS team lead in Agriculture & Water, who checked in with Chris’ colleagues in Logistics, who reported they hadn’t seen HER in a similar period of time. Both were considered totally civilian, meaning, post-apocalypse, they probably could load and shoot a generic firearm or swing a piece of pipe, and likewise avoid heat stroke and forestall dehydration, but would not have much more in the way of survival or combat training. Probably "good enough" scavenging, and familiar with the area.

They were wearing fairly standard jeans / cargo pants, unreliably described t-shirts, and an olive drab canvas and charcoal windbreaker jackets respectively. Each had a day pack missing from their personal property. Pat(rick) was known to wear a ball cap, and was truly Generic Male police report material. Light brown hair, brown eyes, 5’8", 170 lbs (ish). Chris(tine) was a few inches shorter (though, per Sam, taller than her) with a small nose piercing, built on the light side of average, with blue eyes / blonde hair — curly and twisty enough that Bex sympathized with how much effort she must put into brushing it. The two of them had been seen talking together often, which supported the theory of a romantic excursion gone bad.

Barry contributed much more value than Lassart would have as he allocated teams to the areas they personally were most familiar with. Those who had thought to cache regional map data on their phones before the cellular providers started to fail were given the bulk of topside missions, and anyone with one that still powered up transferred copies of the photographs via Bluetooth.

David had broken things up into some pretty competent patrol routes to optimize mileage and time for reach team, based on points of interest and their scheduled deployment lengths. Sam was able to report the "pathway to the Subways of Moria remains shut." Eliminating that possibility right off was a nice start.

She also demonstrated how to switch most of their radios’ signal strength indicators to a numeric display, so if they picked up anything interesting, the radios could function as crude direction finders, especially if combined with a metal surface to block and focus the otherwise omnidirectional antenna on their handset. If two teams could pick up the same distress call and report in to HQ with compass bearings, they could probably focus the search area exponentially. Even a single reading could be compared to the map for likely areas to investigate.

Bex and Rhonda were designated "Search Charlie" and assigned the most likely route someone (or two someones…) might take to one of the community’s remote boltholes - a pre-stocked hiding place / defensive fallback point that could also double as a waystation. It would involve sweeping a little over a mile of connecting (and thus winding) storm drains, basements, utility rooms, and service corridors before surfacing in a pumping substation.

Across two intersecting streets and half a block down, the lobby of a townhouse row would open onto an interior garden that ran the full length of a large L-shaped block. Crossing the street at the end would bring them to a derelict restaurant and bar, backed up against alleys leading to another storm drain system, which held a concealed entrance to the barricaded boiler room. They’d hole up there for the night, and then either be directed to another unsearched location or rotated back to base.

A nearby mirror caught Bex’s eye as she set her excursion pack down on her cot with a thump. She moved closer to her reflection for the first sober look at Sam’s handiwork from the night before. She’d been left with a crown braid sweeping back from both temples, tucking in anything that would have hung down over her ears, and merging at the back of her head. It kinda worked, she supposed. Underground and inside, she didn’t need sun protection, and the more she could hear in close quarters, the better. Some wisps had pulled loose, so she spent a few minutes adjusting and tightening. When the results were snug, if not symmetrical, she decided to add another elastic hair tie where the braids conjoined and dangled towards the nape of her neck. That way if the trailing section disintegrated on the move, she could just wear it as a sloppy ponytail and the rest would hopefully stay intact.

It took some work to find one, and she was only a few seconds away from resorting to a length of paracord and a bandage cinch knot (world’s most badass hair bow?) when Rhonda tapped her on the shoulder with one — and a smirk. Bex stuck her tongue out at her in the mirror and petulantly defended it as "tactical primping", which simply earned her a skeptical snort. "Oh, shut up. Help me get my elbow pads on straight."

Both of them were silent for a time while body armor, vests, and packs were all perfected and buddy-checked. Each of them also retrieved their "secondary" weapons and small holdout supply of ammunition from their respective lockers. These would probably be what they’d wield for most of the next day and a half since mobility and flexibility trumped their usual specializations into accuracy and volume of fire.

Bex’s was a US Army surplus M4, the midsized carbine deployed by the thousands in Iraq and Afghanistan. It was an earlier configuration, still only single fire or three round burst, not fully automatic, but someone had customized it before Bex received it. It was topped with a close-to-medium range optic that resembled a curved prism in a roughly inch-high boxy frame, because, well, that’s exactly what it was. The dot projected into the curved material would seem to shift within the glass based on viewing angle, such that it always remained near the rifle’s true aim point, whatever the relative position of the shooter’s eye.

The bottom modular forearm rail carried the most noteworthy customization, a stubby-barreled shotgun sometimes nicknamed a "Master Key", because one of its prime design purposes was to breach doors by shooting the hinges and/or locks off. More controlled / reusable than a breaching explosive. A comparatively boring suppressor threaded onto the muzzle for stealth and drastically more comfortable indoor use, joined by a compact flashlight along the left side’s mounting rail. Ronnie had taught her how to use it for leverage when in some stances, and it could be toggled or strobed with a thumb click. All that weight sometimes tired Bex’s arms if she had to hold it extended for a long time, but she also found it helped her fight muzzle rise when she had to fire off rapid, repeated shots.

Rhonda’s CQB piece was decidedly NOT standard US military issue, though apparently had found use with the Secret Service and other law enforcement agencies. The Belgian P90 submachine gun looked positively diminutive compared to her usual heavy weapon, but packed a nasty, profligate bite for its size. The sci-fi prop staple was easy to recognize by the "bullpup" configuration that moved the firing and loading mechanisms rearward, integrating them into the shoulder stock. This effectively moved the barrel back with them, allowing surprising barrel length for its compact size. Fifty rounds originally designed for armor penetration fed from an appropriately quirky transparent magazine along the top. It sported a smaller cousin to Bex’s holosight, along with similar lighting and suppression. Bex thought the weapon a perfect allegory to Sam’s little, but mighty (bam, Shakespeare!) nature as she snugged her military style cap with its smaller visor and flat top down over her new hairdo and started wiring up her earpiece.

En route to the armory for a full allocation of ammo and the rest of their loadout, she quietly asked Rhonda for the armorer’s name again. Ronnie raised her eyebrows in exaggerated surprise. "What? I’ve been yelling at you for months trying to get through that skull… and Red comes along and drags your sorry ass to make you eat and booze you up with a smile, and now you’re dipping your toe in the social waters? The hell, girl?"

Bex sighed. "Oh come on, Ronnie. I’m making an effort!"

"Mm-hmm."

Bex was silent for a moment and sighed again. "I’m sorry. Mom always did say I needed to hear things twice, from someone else…"

Rhonda grinned and punched her shoulder, dropping the indignant mask and revealing a grin. "Gotchaaa… whatever the hell works. Maybe now I won’t have to do it all myself now. Let’s go RE-introduce you to Erik, our resident Viking master of things that go boom."

Bex lurched sideways at the impact and clutched her temple with a groan. "Owww… why?!? I’m just glad the first leg of our trip is going to be dark."

**

Sam was at the armory too, insisting on checking every team’s radio and light batteries with a voltage meter. Occasionally she’d fish through a box at her side, selecting the correct replacement by feel alone, shove it into someone’s hands, and wave them on. Bex watched her give a member of Search Bravo one after another, her face growing sterner with each. By the time she was finished, her lips were pressed thin and the eyebrow came up. "We are having a talk later, you and I. Don’t even bother trying to hide when you get back."

Bex stepped forward for her turn, pulled the bolt back on her M4 and tilted it to the left to look in the open chamber before handing it over, just like Ronnie had taught her. She obediently twisted to move her radio close so Sam could pop it out of the dedicated pouch and tap the charging contacts with the meter probes. When Sam held out her hand imperiously for her non-weapon-mounted flashlight, Bex considered herself fortunate the electron gods had bestowed a satisfactory blessing upon her that day. Perhaps libations with one of their priestesses the night before garnered their favor.

Or, you know. Charging her own shit.

Rhonda’s strident voice pulled both of their gazes to the other side of the room where a cyclone fence enclosed ammunition storage. "Erik, whatthefuck is this shit?" She poked the top of a stack of rifle magazines. "What’re you doing giving my battle buddy this GI metal bullshit? You want me getting shot in the back? You give that to someone who’s gonna be standing still on guard duty, not crawling and climbing and covering my ass!"

Bex marveled at how even when she was being protective, Ronnie wrapped it up in a layer of gruffness and plausible deniability. Erik, his sandy beard a testament to his people’s genetic predisposition towards epic facial hair, shrugged nonchalantly from the aisle he’d already started back down. It was a fair bet Ronnie kept her eyes on him as she reached out with a single finger, pushed the object of offense back through the window, and pulled her hand back grasping an acceptable replacement. "When people go out, you give them the polymer stuff or so help me I will come back in that cage and go full NCO on your ass!"

Bex stepped aside of Sam's table but didn’t stray too far, in case she needed to stir up a little Clash of the Titans action and beat a hasty retreat while they were occupied with each other. Rhonda arrived shortly, and handed her a stack of black plastic mags. Her face was growing less stormy by the time Bex made eye contact and spoke. "Ah, I guess I appreciate that? But I don’t understand what the difference is."

Rhonda grunted. "Hmph. That’s supposed to be HIS job. All it takes is dropping one too much, or you flopping down on top of it just so, and the metal will bend too easily. They jam too much under adverse conditions, basically."

"So, pretty much everything since the last time I had cranberry sauce is what you’re saying," Sam muttered from under a brunette woman’s arm, raised for a radio check. That done, she backed out and stretched upright with a few audible pops. Watching the two of them stow magazines and a couple of smoke and flash grenades around themselves for a minute while nobody else was ready for a battery inspection, her lips started to compress again.

Bex elbowed Rhonda. "Uh, incoming…"

"You two…" Sam wiggled an upraised finger back and forth between the two of them for emphasis. "You two keep each other safe out there. Watch your backs, shoot straight, conserve ammo, and never, ever cut a deal with a dragon."

That got a pair of confused sounds from the both of them, and she waved her hand dismissively. "Shut up. I’ve always wanted to get to say that." The finger returned, leveled at Bex’s nose. "And you. Don’t you go forgetting that you’ve got people, Sparky, hear?"

"Yes ma’am. And… yeah. Thanks. I know. Most of the time anyway? But some of them need me, so I’m solid for now, I have to be."

That was apparently good enough. Sam turned to Rhonda. "You?"

Ronnie snapped to attention and fired off a well-honed salute. "You know it, Sammie."

"Good. Get out there, find our people, and come back n’ drink with me here so I can fix that hair. God, what did you do to it already?" Sam returned to her battery checks, muttering. Clearly, they were dismissed, and she didn’t want to wallow in feels.

Bex looked at Rhonda for a moment with her open palms half raised, facing up, and her mouth partway open for a moment. She couldn’t win!

**

The first leg of their journey was fortunately quiet — literally. They both put on their own little accessory to deal with the subterranean environments after leaving the underground checkpoint guarding the entrance to the drainage tunnels. Bex had upgraded filtration masks in the several months since Leonard’s initial generosity, and her new one was made of meshed neoprene, with exhalation valves and interchangeable filters. She doubted anyone manufactured the thin paper and charcoal sandwiches anymore, but that could be a problem for three replacements from now. It let her cope with just a mere fraction of the mold, algae, anaerobic bacteria, and decomposing organic matter she’d experience without it, and the last thing she needed was another impetus for nausea while walking off her hangover. It wouldn’t even interfere with radio usage, since she got to use one of those very elite-operator-looking contact microphones that wrapped around her neck and rested on the side of her throat.

Rhonda’s sinuses were made of sterner stuff. Instead, she wore a pair of electronic earmuffs that both amplified her hearing to superhuman levels and cut audio in microseconds when they detected loud noises. Between that and her vastly superior urban combat patrol experience (especially when comparing to Bex’s handful of learned-as-she-went months and childhood laser tag matches…) made her the de facto lead element.

Bex tried to minimize her Darth Vader impression that must have joined every rustle and clink of her movement flooding Ronnie’s amplified ears, and focused on complementing her partner’s movements — watching opposite sides of an intersection, etc — and heeding her signals as they moved through what she’d been admonished was "doors and corners" territory. Before long, she felt herself settling into that Zen-like battle trance of "seeing everything by seeing nothing." (Mental bibliography entry, Musashi Miyamoto, A Book of Five Rings, 17th century.)

When they reached part of their route that required traversing a long section of round, 4’ high tunnel, they were dismayed by the tactical nightmare it presented — neither woman would be able to directly support the other until they’d both made their way through it in turn, Rhonda watching the front, and Bex painstakingly scooting and duck-walking backwards — and that it was also uncomfortably reminiscent of another length of round, dark passage she had experience with.

**

Rebecca learned pretty quickly that while their little patch of rooftop tranquility was Jaime’s idea, and he literally did the heavy lifting, his success had depended significantly on Allie’s inherent green thumb. After that became an open secret, it led to one of those flashes of accidental genius originally intended as a witty wisecrack. Leonard lamented the lack of a good beer one spring evening after a shared meal, and the women volleyed a few jabs about how he would fit right in a thousand years ago in the ancient Middle East, where someone must have said exactly the same thing and decided the guide the "roots" (har-har) of society from hunting and gathering to basic subsistence agriculture. It took several moments of stunned silence from Leonard and Jaime before the ladies looked at each other in confusion, and Rebecca poked Jaime’s knee and asked, "What? What’d we say?!?"

The men had to endure several days of heckling about only truly being motivated by three things — beer, women, and beer plus women. Leonard eventually adopted the role of the wizened older male, countering that, those days, "What else could make life worth living?"

Regardless, they’d all realized that getting serious about producing their own food was the essential next step in establishing continued stability for themselves. They started checking residential gardens for food plants, maybe perennials like fruit trees, or vegetables that might have reseeded themselves in time for spring. They poked around in sheds and mud rooms for seed packets, and burning a little fuel on a pilgrimage in Leonard’s truck to the Home Depot a little further back towards the urban center. To their disappointment, it had already been not just looted, but at some point, torched or victim of an unfought spontaneous blaze. They didn’t want to let that setback deter them though, especially since by some miracle the local water supply never entirely failed outright, solving the number one challenge of steady irrigation. 

(Bex would eventually learn this was the result of a small group of unsung heroes. A valiant handful of security guards and equipment operators at the municipal freshwater operations plant dedicated long hours to maintaining supply and what basic quality they could. In a tragic twist, this was only possible because of the drastically lower demand, as they could shut down and conserve redundant systems, or scavenge them for replacement parts. Regardless, many of the region’s survivors probably would not have survived the year following the collapse without their efforts. Attempts to convince the remaining populace to embrace several palettes of compost created before the plague from processed mostly-human waste at the outbound treatment plant could have gone better.)

With water readily available, the little colony of survivors made a good start with potting scavenged seeds and transplants, but found their urban location lacking in arable soil. The ground nearby was hard-packed, fairly sterile, and gravel ridden — not to mention whatever chemicals might have accumulated in construction runoff.

In addition to large scale mixed-use projects and big box stores, civic planners and the economics of land prices made urban fringes popular for another development type — sprawling, business oriented, convention friendly hotels. One had been completed several years back a few miles way, and was partially visible from the upper floors of their building. It wouldn’t be hard to drive to, but doing so would require a roundabout path to main drags between commercial plots and large residential enclaves, following them to an overpass crossing a wide seasonal floodplain for the river, and then backtracking to the hotel. They hoped their recollections of a large atrium and extensive decorative landscaping meant it would be worth the trip, but concerns about fuel use weighed on them after the fruitless excursion to Home Depot.

Jaime and Rebecca decided a bit of a hike to do some recon might be a fun diversion, and to make a day of it. The drainage for their neighborhood converged at the mouth of a concrete culvert that ran a few hundred yards under the multi-lane frontage roads and adjoining business plots, letting out into the floodplain at the other end.

Daypacks loaded, the couple made the uncomfortable crawl, found a reasonable spot to ford the moderate creek, and presence of the bolt cutters aside, had a pretty normal-feeling walk through the scrub brush and woods on the far side. The hotel grounds were suitable, and after some initial reservations (and pun jokes about them), they awkwardly located several "new" articles of clothing in the suitcases scattered around the lobby. Rebecca was far too afraid of the idea of encountering bodies to start searching the suites, and Jaime didn’t push her on it. He did, however, push her into the river after she laughed at his own stumble and partial submersion.

This made the trip back through the culvert a messy, dank affair. It really didn’t help her mood when he wiped his hands all over her back in a slimy embrace at the far end. He was informed that if he ever wanted to see his girlfriend in, or for that matter, out of, any of the new garments in her pack that he’d thought so flattering, there had better be a hot bath filling for her by the time she’d finished hanging them out to dry on their courtyard clothesline.

Leonard and Allie were shocked to see them making swamp tracks into the building, but when Leonard opened his mouth to say something, Allie arched her eyebrow pointedly at the stormy scowl on Rebecca’s face and shook her head at him.

**

Ronnie nudged her as they rose from their rest break at the end of the cramped tunnel. Bex hadn’t realized she’d been smiling to herself, but rolled her eyes at the imminent grilling.

"What’re you looking all sunshiny about? Lately when your eyes go thoughtful like that, you come back all gloom and thunderstorms…"

Bex paused putting her mask back on so she could stick her tongue out in reply. "You who keep nagging me to go to my fucking happy place once in a while? And when I do… what, huh?"

"Pfft." Ronnie waved her hand about dismissively. "I’m just not accustomed to you listening to me n’ shit. It’s a new experience."

"Ugh. I told you, I’m making an effort. Put your hearing aids back in and let’s go, grandma."

Ronnie’s eyebrows went up, and she did slide her magic earmuffs back into position, but muttered loudly enough for Bex to hear without any amplification, "Tsk… I can still whoop you, girl. I’m as good once as I ever was."

Really, terminating a conversational dispute with a country song chorus? Wasn’t that like bringing up Nazis in an internet argument? Was letting her win a round Ronnie’s version of positive reinforcement? Either way, she’d take it. Next she just had to manage getting one in over Sam. Track record, not so good.

The time after the break went much like what came before. Less hunched over back pain though, and her headache had finally subsided. They reached the pumping station soon enough and paused on the ground floor before exiting. When Bex needed to change up weapons, she could set down the M4 or let it dangle in front of her body on its sling, and then reach behind her shoulder and slide the stupid scout rifle up and over. It was easy enough to put back loosely, though the velcro retention at the top was fiddly to cinch tight again by feel alone.

Rhonda, on the other hand… the SMG was easy enough to leave slung to free her hands, but her M249 SAW (not actually able to down a tree, per MythBusters…) was bulky and lumpy enough that she had to either set her pack down and detach it, or have Bex remove it from behind for her. They opted for the latter this time as they prepared for the wider spaces to follow. It really reminded Bex of how old-fashioned horse drawn artillery had to be hauled into position and then unlimbered in preparation for use. Maybe it was an apt enough comparison, given how much age-related humor was flying around of late. She wasn’t about to make it out loud though.

Rhonda kept her P90 in her hands at the ready while Bex supported the "light" machine gun’s nearly twenty pounds of weight, unclipped the straps, and then wrestled it to the ground with a quiet grunt of relief. After she stood upright again to watch their surroundings, Ronnie knelt and her expert hands flowed across the dark metal of the larger gun, inspecting it and attaching a twist-lock suppressor to the aftermarket muzzle specifically designed for it. Before she picked up the LMG, she put the P90’s suppressor into the backpack pouch its larger cousin had come from, and re-rigged herself to distribute the weight of the bigger gun with sling straps and attach the P90 to the right side of her backpack for easy tear-away.

After an exchange of nods, Bex felt for and held the push-to-talk button on her radio to transmit on a different preset than the one set up for voice activation — the radios could monitor both simultaneously, but transmissions were segregated for chaos reduction. "Control, Sierra Charlie. Proceeding from waypoint."

The reply came back with just a hint of crackle. "Sierra Charlie, Control. Copy, good hunting."

"Thanks, Control. Sierra Charlie clear." She hadn’t had much formal training in radio protocol, but figured as long as she mirrored Ronnie’s example she couldn’t fail too epically. That plan seemed to have worked well enough so far for many things probably covered in How to Be a Badass 101.

They both peered through the mesh covered windows, letting their eyes adjust and checking the street, and with another pair of nods, pushed open the steel door and exited. The pumping station used to be vital to water pressure in the neighborhood, but nobody wanted to look at it. So, it was disguised from the outside, apparently just another row house, complete with shaded windows, planter beds, and brass address numbers on the painted door.

Slipping across and down the street, they moved in a bounding overwatch pattern, only one traversing between good cover locations at a time. Eschewing an exposed crossing at the corner, they turned, and made their move a third of the way down the street. The building they sheltered beneath on the opposite side ran the entire block — rust colored brick with ornate scrollwork window frames over a sunken planter row faced with a wrought-iron fence.

Rhonda took up position in a nook between a concrete-encased trash can, a large tree, and a sedan which formed a convenient three-sided foxhole. She kept her head low and on a swivel as she scanned the street, across and in both directions. Bex kept her carbine up and watched windows on their side of the street as she crouch-walked past Rhonda’s position, and then trained her sights on the lobby’s beveled glass and wood double doors as she moved into the vestibule. She hunkered as tightly as she could into the brick corner, and when Ronnie mirrored her, pulled on the unlocked door and slipped through to the nearest pillar inside.

Again, Rhonda moved to a position opposite her. Teams of Broadway residents had put time into blocking the windows lining the interior garden, but the two of them still moved cautiously as they traversed and exited the lobby, each hugging one side of the verdant space beyond. They mostly watched the respective opposite wall, but paused to carefully cover and sweep around the occasional cover within the garden - trees or big pots. There weren’t many spots to check, but that also meant they didn’t have many places to hide, so any ambush would primarily have to be deterred by overwhelming fire. Bex took some comfort in knowing that’s exactly what Ronnie’s main gun was designed to provide, and was mindful of the position of her own smoke grenade as her movements periodically brushed against it on her vest.

She briefly reflected on how this block of apartments seemed it would be a very pleasant residence in happier days, past or hopefully future too. She’d have to tell Ronnie about that second part — future — later. She’d approve that Bex’s thoughts drifted in that direction. Sam would probably just poke her and tell her "it was about time" with a wink and a nudge. She did seem the type to be a Dr. Who fan, and lord knows she loved her some puns.

Their movement through the gardens to an identical lobby (down to its wainscoting, crown molding, chandelier medallion, and formerly glorious plush burgundy carpet) continued uneventfully. Directly across from their exit door was the abandoned restaurant and bar, which they advanced to via more cover-and-movement. The canopy was tattered, and windows mostly shattered, but the logo on the faded menu implied a wine and pasta joint. Another reason she would have liked the neighborhood.

The lounge had long since been thoroughly looted, but Bex kept her aim on the bar until she was able to come around the far end, at the left-most edge of the restaurant. She briefly flicked her light on to check the darkness behind it, while Rhonda cleared the main dining area in the right half of the front-of-house.

Bex crept along behind the bar towards its other open end, and then pivoted gradually around the edge of the kitchen doorway to “slice" the room as Ronnie had taught her weeks before. Halfway through the maneuver, she spotted a figure partially silhouetted by the open back door several yards away. Started but steady, she pushed her light’s thumb switch to illuminate and identify them.

"Ahh, fuck!" The exclamation came in a male voice as several hundred lumens must have resembled a compact sun to the unknown individual. They flinched and closed their eyes, giving her a good portion of a second to process the scene. The first thing to register was a double-barreled sawn-off shotgun, but their involuntary reaction had aimed it low and off to the side, so her tense finger checked before applying just a few more pounds of force to her trigger.

Next she noticed the gas mask (with a cracked left lens) dangling from a satchel bag of some sort, steel toe boots, and a single scuffed tactical kneepad. Jeans sagged below an oversized t-shirt splattered with paint, and then the face… registered as familiar behind overgrown scruff just as she realized the voice tickled her memory too. "Oh shit... Rogelio, it’s me!"

It was, of all the crazy odds, Jaime’s brother. He wasn’t really the best of influences and certainly not a noble soul, but still… family? These days? Maybe this could be a good thing. She lowered her aim a touch so the light scattered from the floor, illuminating them both and removing the glare from his eyes. Simultaneously, she recognized the faint clicking of a familiar weapon being shifted and knew Ronnie was behind her and to the right, covering her from the darkness. As Rogelio worked through what he heard and saw, she shifted a half step to the left, disguising the movement as a weapon shift and posture adjustment.

"Oh no shit… hey man! Come check this out… it’s my little brother’s side chica, Becky or Becksie or something…" Three things happened almost simultaneously:

1) She grimaced, having hated both of those variants of her name since childhood, and replied, "My name is Rebecca. Jaime liked to call me Bex."

2) Another figure stepped into the hallway behind the kitchen dangling a small SMG or autopistol she was unfamiliar with loosely in one hand. It had a perforated shroud around the stubby barrel, and a long, straight vertical magazine ahead of the pistol grip. It almost looked like a spaceman version of the "Grease Guns" in her dad’s old WW II movies, which he said kinda supplanted the classic Tommy Guns.

3) Ronnie’s voice whispered "Flanking right" in her earpiece. She must have been moving to the long hallway leading to the restaurant’s restrooms that ran alongside the kitchen.

Immediately subsequent was the realization he had not said "sidekick".

"Wait, what?"

Rogelio’s lip curled into a ghostly sneer in the odd light. "Oh, yeah girl. You were just one of his collection. Me an’ him were total players before all this shit…"

Her brows knitted a furrow between them. No way in hell, that couldn’t be right. "That’s not true. Why are you being…"

"Hey, so where is he anyway, where’s mi hermano?" He paused after his interruption, looking behind her. "Ohh, wait. Did he run off with someone else?"

"No! He’d never do that… we were living together…" She couldn’t help the indignance fading away into wistfulness. "We were all each other had when all this shit broke loose…"

Rogelio tilted his head. "Wait, 'were'? 'Had'? Did you fucking get him killed?"

That sparked her back to the whole "anger" part of grief, and she unconsciously took a half step towards him. "Hey, FUCK you, Rogelio. We shouldn’t be…"

"Shit! I told him chasing all that good girl ass like you was a bad idea. He was always so fucking dumb when it came to girls. One look at those pretty little baby blues behind a library book…" He waved his free hand around as he continued ranting. "Or lil’ titties hanging out of their preppy tank tops with their study buddies lounging around on the lawn by the dorms, trying to work on their tans.. and he’d just go all fucking stupid. Just loved trying to 'turn his life around', talking about 'making something of himself'. He was just tryin’a 'make' his way into some rich girl pussy. Did he tell you he loved you?"

Her jaw was clenched painfully tight now. "Goddammit Rogelio, he wouldn’t want this, we should…"

"Nah, nah. I know what he wanted. How’s it feel knowing you were only ever a game, a conquest for him? No, no, wait, a "cun"-quest, haha…"

She seethed.. and slipped a finger into the trigger for her under barrel shotgun. It wasn’t a perfect grip with her gun at this weird angle, she ended up having to use the ring finger on her left hand. If he kept going… doors weren’t the only things the "Master Key" could open up. But goddammit this was his BROTHER. 

"Stop saying shit about him like that! Again, fuck you! You weren’t there… you don’t know…" Her eyes blurred, heartbreak and rage warring inside. "And in fact, where the hell were you? Why WEREN’T YOU there to help him?" She really tried to avoid hating anything, but that was really the only word for what was starting to churn and roil.

"Hey! Fuck you, bitch!" He jabbed a finger of his left hand towards her, but that rotated his gun arm away from her. Dumbass. She felt the cool metal of the trigger guard around her finger, and wondered if it might be starting to warm up resting against her skin, wondered what wearing a ring from Jaime would have felt like. But then Rogelio continued. "It’s your fault he got killed, wasn’t it? For a dumb puta like you… you musta been reaaaaal good, huh. Did you wear a tiara for him, princess?"

The other jackass in the hallway started laughing, behind over with his hand on his stomach and gun still pointed down.

"Did you wear a pretty dress while he rode you, rich girl?" 

Oh, that fucking does… 

"Did you sleep with someone else and give him the plague?"

The mounting fire in her eyes went flat and her breathing slowed. She didn’t notice her heart pounding faster and faster anymore, and the tears were still on her cheek but gone from her eyes. No more. Quoth the fucking raven, nevermore.

Rogelio had a split second to rethink his recent choices in life, realizing he saw an emotionless, dead-eyed look on her face he never had when he saw her clinging to his brother, unsure which of them was a trophy for who. Realizing for a heartbeat maybe he’d gone too far. Then the world exploded in noise, his leg dissolved into a burning fire, and lightning lanced through his chest while he toppled towards what used to be his leg.

**

Bex yanked her left hand rearward. The short barreled shotgun roared and blazed, and she felt the heat wash back over her hand just as the recoil leapt against her poor grip and stung her finger where the lower part of the trigger guard slapped against it. She cried out, but even if it broke, she had the better part of the situation. 12-gauge buckshot at less than ten feet flayed Rogelio’s right thigh, absolutely taking his femoral artery with it and probably fracturing the femur for good measure.

Wrestling with the recoil, she used its force to jam the shoulder stock where it should go, if perhaps harder than usual. She didn’t care if it bruised through her gear as she hauled back on the pistol grip with her right hand to snug the gun up like she’d been taught, lifted the muzzle towards his chest, and squeezed off a single shot. Without registering the effects, she snapped her aim to the shadowy companion in the hallway and put a double-tap into the center of his torso. This, as a wave of white linear clouds puffed into a horizontal plane at chest height, starting about eight feet in front of her and continuing several past her target in the hallway. Where they intersected with a human body, gouts of blood erupted towards and splattered the walls on the left side of the room and hallway.

Bex couldn’t hear it over the deafening ringing in her ears, but when Rhonda stepped halfway into the room with the P90 extended in her right hand and the M249 balanced on her left hip, she heard her friend mumble as she sank to the floor, "I was on financial aid, you fuckpuddle."

**

Bex knelt on the floor, gun half-dangling by its sling, her left hand curled towards her chest, and right hand reaching across to cling to her unprotected left ear. She sighed as Ronnie unclipped the LMG and knelt, touching her cheek lightly. Ronnie’s gloved hand gently moved forward so her palm maintained the comforting contact and her fingers could fish the earpiece from Bex’s right ear.

"Hey, kiddo.. just hold still for a sec and breathe, let me have a look at you." Her friend’s right hand seemed okay… so Ronnie gently moved it aside and pressed the P90 into it. "We dunno who else heard all that, so you watch that back hallway past me, okay? It’ll be easier to one-hand than yours."

When Ronnie’s hand left Bex’s face, her cheek felt cool briefly from its absence. Ronnie gently uncurled her winglady’s left arm away from her chest and cradled it in both of her hands, cupped like she was carrying water. Bex only gasped and flinched when Ronnie touched the side of her ring finger nearest her middle digit. Brushing along the outer and back sides didn’t elicit any signs of additional pain. "Okay, honey. I don’t think it’s broken. Probably gonna be a weird bruise though. I wish this place had power, I might be able to find some ice, but all we have is the single-use one in the medkit. If you were back on that college v-ball court I’d whip it right out, but… since Walgreens is closed right now, y’think you can do without?"

That got a chuckle. Bex hadn’t heard that particular euphemism for the collapse of western civilization yet. "Nah, I’ll manage. The team from G-W’s given me way worse. Normally I’d buddy tape it, but…"

"Yeah, even if we could buy more tomorrow, it’d be tricky with your glove. But you let mama Ronnie take care of this for you…"

"Okay, Sarge. I’m not in much shape to protest."

"Like that’s ever done you any good." Ronnie smirked as she fished a length of paracord from a leg pocket. It seemed the military considered that stuff second only to duct tape in usefulness, and Bex wasn’t surprised to see Ronnie had some as she slipped a basic loop knot over Bex’s middle finger, followed by a couple of wraps around just that finger as a spacer, and then wrapped the two fingers together. Snug enough to keep them parallel, but not enough to impede blood flow. The leftover line ran down the back of Bex’s hand and tucked into the elastic at her glove’s wrist. "Don’t worry, if we meet any more assholes, I’ll flip them off for you." Another chuckle was a good sign — it meant Bex wasn’t getting overwhelmed by shock for now. "How’s that ear?"

Bex moved her left hand experimentally. "The ringing is fading a bit, and you sound like you’re in front of me now, so I’m probably good to move."

"Attagirl. Maybe use the proper fingers for the job for a while, huh?"

Bex used her right hand to flip Ronnie off as she passed the SMG back. "Like this, right Sarge?"

Ronnie’s eyes narrowed and she replied with a grunt. Bex was pleased with herself, she was on a pretty good streak today!

Ronnie hooked their right forearms together and helped Bex back to her feet. She wasn’t going to ask outright just yet, but Bex must have caught a concerned or questioning look on her face, because she patted Ronnie’s shoulder, made unevasive eye contact, and reassured her, "I’m ok, Ronnie. For now at least."

An unsaid "Are you sure?" moment passed, then, "Okay. As far as I’m concerned he had it coming, and, if you look at their stuff, they’re clearly vultures. But he was talking a lot of shit there, about both of you. Help me put the baby gun back in his lil’ pouch, okay?"

Bex stepped around her and replied as she snugged the P90 home on Ronnie’s pack. "Yeah, I know. I’m standing and he’s not right now, so. I’ll probably have shit to process later but I’m compartmentalizing for now."

Ronnie made a noncommittal grunt. "Well, you know what the most satisfying thing to do after kicking someone’s ass is?"

"Other than posting a video of it online, having a beer, and getting laid? I figure those are probably the cliché replies…"

Ronnie shook her head with a chuckle. "I like where your head’s at. But, there’s one better, a tradition going back centuries." She grinned and held up a finger pedantically. "Taking their stuff."

**

Bex reflected on the notion that Ronnie was actually correct — Sun Tzu definitely had a quote about "wise generals foraging upon the enemy". Ancient philosophies about kicking someone’s ass and taking their things. Love it. But, she supposed it also meant human nature didn’t change much centuries later. She kissed the St. Christopher’s medal and murmured a quiet apology to Jaime for killing his brother… but… he totally fucking started it.

Stepping over to Rogelio’s corpse, she gingerly lifted the flap of his messenger bag to avoid getting his blood on herself. (Ugh. Like once wasn’t enough. Get thee behind me, unpleasant memories!)

She found, in order:

A map of the metro area from an auto insurance / roadside assistance company. Okay, useful. Few scribbles on it, mostly "all looted" and "checkpoint" or "biohazard", so forth. ("Biohazard" sounded a bit too educated for Rogelio, so she wondered who he’d taken it from.) Most of the markings were in, or on the other side of, the neighborhoods their newcomers a few days back had fled from. Prick that he was, Lassart should still be told that there seemed to be a trend heading their direction.  
A small stack of not-at-all-classy pinup magazines, putting it politely. Ugh, fine. Someone back home might appreciate them. Or… Ronnie? She didn’t seem the type to go for the vapid silicone and Photoshop look though. But hey, no judging.  
Mixed & mismatched MRE pouches. Yummy? Heavy emphasis on the question mark.  
Midsized flashlight. Not much left to the batteries. Eh, take it back, someone might need it. Or trade, or maybe Sam would turn it into a fricking searchlight.  
Cheap buck knife. Whatever, trade fodder.  
A rattling box of shotgun shells. Wonder how many are left in there.

As she thumbed open the lid of the cardboard ammunition box, she heard the clicking and snapping of Ronnie unloading the other schmuck’s SMG. She could hear it through both ears, and with proper stereo sound placement, to her relief. Her left ear still had that numb sensation she’d get leaving concerts and clubs and the like, but usually those faded by morning, so fingers crossed.

The box contained four red shells — standard buckshot. But, she tilted her head to the side at the sight of the other colors. Two blue shells… whoa. That’s a big fucking bullet visible at the business end. Stamped "12 ga. slug" in the brass part. Ok, how many mouthy sexist assholes could those go through in a straight line? The one orange shell puzzled her further. She picked it up between two fingers and… fuck. "Uhhh… Ronnie?"

Rhonda looked up sharply at the nervous tone. Bex had frozen in place, being extremely careful not to drop the shell. "Isn’t phosphorous… you know… boom? Scary shit? We got a pretty good lecture about it in Chem…"

Rhonda picked her way around the fuckpuddle’s blood puddle with a morbid mental chuckle at the rhyme she’d come up with. She was very careful and deliberate in her motions when she plucked the shell from Bex’s finger and looked it over — as much to not spook her as anything, really. "Ah. No. Well, sort of. Phosphorus grenades are some, as you say, scary shit. This isn’t too bad. It’s an incendiary shotgun shell, basically belches a cone of blinding flame several yards. Sometimes they’re called 'dragon’s breath' rounds. He shouldn’t be carrying it in something so flimsy, but other’n that you’re alright. Tends to seriously fuck up the barrel though."

Bex let out her breath. "Ah. Phew. Sorry…"

"Eh. You’re fine, showing more brains than most of the boots and PFC’s I had to babysit."

"Uhm, right…" They returned to their respective looting, Bex still eyeing the orange shell in her palm. Strongest thing to store it in.. well.. she figured out the lever to unlock the sawed-off’s break-open breech and caught the two standard shells in her palm. Setting everything down on the steel prep table in the kitchen… oh, hey, looks like "someone" smacked their head on it as he fell. Right shame, that. Nicer fella, etc.

After a quick once-over, she loaded one of the standard shells into her… well, her "other" shotgun (now that she had two…) to replace the spent one. The other red shell went back in the box, and after a quick peek through the barrels (from the back, jeez!) she inserted one of each of the scarier shell types and clacked the breech closed.

All the other useful spoils went into take-out bags from the kitchen and then their packs. Ronnie helped her strap the shortened coach gun somewhere she could reach it easily if some other idiot came along for some reciprocal day-ruining. Under fifteen minutes from the bloodshed, Bex thought they were ready to resume their trek. "All set, Sarge?"

Ronnie was digging something out from another cargo pocket. "One moment, m’lady. One further matter we must attend to."

Bex couldn’t help a giggle. "Oh god, never go to Ren Faire… uh, if we ever have them again."

"Cheer thy spirits, mankind has always loved booze, blades, and bodices. Have faith such celebrations shall return someday." Ronnie approached and opened a small, octagonal black plastic case while Bex openly, literally, facepalmed.

"Hark, this device will shield you from further loss of hearing in thine ear." Ronnie held up a funny-looking earpiece, with a flanged cone earplug, clear loop that made it look like a tiny elephant’s ear, and a diminutive cap of some kind. "Oh, fuck it. I can’t keep doing it. Here. Put this in with the loop tucked into the hollow of your outer ear. With the cap open like that it’ll balance well between hearing things and not going deaf. if you’re ever really having fun, closing it blocks a lot more." She continued as Bex experimented with wiggling the plug into her ear canal. "Word of advice, try not to open and close it while it’s in your ear. It’s kinda like slamming a door with your ear up against it."

Bex flexed her jaw a few times to get used to the feel of wearing two different kinds of earpiece, while Ronnie closed the case over the right-side earplug still within, and stuffed it into Bex’s pack for her.

"Now, milady, let us sally forth." Oh, Christ. Not again. "Control, Sierra Charlie. Two unaffiliated hostiles downed nearing next waypoint. Sitrep green."

Ok, that was more the Ronnie she was used to.

**

The alley out back was primarily trash and refuse service for several businesses, many of them food related.. so it stank to high heaven. Bex sought refuge back in her mask, and Rhonda continued carrying the M249 since the next drain system was much more spacious. They proceeded even more cautiously now, concerned their recent encounter was part of a larger group, but they didn’t see any further signs of other people as they moved between buildings. It was good to focus on something though, rather than spiraling off into unpleasant thoughts in the wake of all the disparagements and subsequent gunfight. The combat had been decisively one-sided, but some of Rogelio’s remarks would probably sting for a while, and linger toxically like an unflushed poison. Asshole. But hey, he might have gotten the last word, but she’d been the one to end the argument rather definitively. She tried to tell herself that her misgivings about pulling the trigger just meant she was human, and that Ronnie was right, they would’ve been a threat anyway.

Just before they reached the manhole descending into the next set of passages, they spotted a stray dog — most were, these days. Bex knelt down to try to lure him or her over with friendly overtures an octave or two higher in pitch than normal, but the pup had already been hesitant in the first place (maybe from the reverberating shotgun blast) and scampered off after a moment’s indecision.

She sighed and pouted for a second, which got a little smirk from Ronnie. "Shut up. Life sucks. I want a puppy. All those video game trailers with the adorable dog companions after the apocalypse, or even John Wick… why don’t I get an adorable, loyal and bloodthirsty little sidekick?"

The smirk leveled up into a mocking grin and a chuckle. "Honey, what do you think YOU are?" Ronnie shook her head and gestured onwards to the underground entrance with a tilt of her weapon.

Dammit. So much for the winning streak.

**

This section of the tunnels seemed to still have power to their cage-and-dome enclosed lighting. That and the better sight lines in this area made for easy going — probably part of the selection of the bolthole’s location. It gave Bex some hope that it would also be easier for the folks they were looking for… but… she was growing concerned they might have run into Rogelio. There was some comfort that he hadn’t been carrying anything of theirs, but maybe there were still other unpleasant types that he’d been roving with? She played her light over stretches of the tunnel occasionally, but neither of them caught sight of any tracks.

Before long, they reached a fork in the tunnel. The right side ran a few yards, but then ended in sturdy looking bars and grating, beyond them only shadow, while the left branch continued the main tunnel onwards. They went right.

Tucked behind a thoroughly normal looking pile of rubble and detritus was an inset steel door. The tiny brush bristles hiding in plain sight at the bottom were intact - nobody had opened the door. Bex plucked them up and set them aside, and then placed her hand on the doorknob, nodding to Ronnie.

Rhonda nodded back, Bex opened the door, and pivoted in behind and above Ronnie after she went in low. The room was illuminated by a few overhead fluorescents, one flickering. All clear.

Bex keyed up her radio to report. "Control, Sierra Charlie. Pulling up to the… " Ugh. Dammit. "Pulling up to the hotel now. Parking lot empty. Lots of vacancies." Someone back at Broadway replied back with an acknowledgment and she declared themselves as done transmitting, grateful that there was no sign Ronnie had noticed her brief stutter. She was always so patient with her, but the self-consciousness never really went away.

The room smelled faintly of ozone and dampness, but most of the funk from outside was blocked by the door. After they cleared the room, Bex stood on an inverted bucket to twist the flickering bulb a fraction of an inch to shut it off, and set the bucket under a trickle of water from somewhere up in the tangle of pipework. The wrench-types back home suspected the preponderance of supply lines for the boilers is what provided the outpost with steady fresh (if questionably potable) water, but made doubly sure the local and building gas lines were shut off!

Removing her mask and breathing deeply with multiple flavors of relief, Bex flipped the deadbolt on the door and toggled a small switch on an orderly tangle of circuitry nearby. With a chirp, a pair of LEDs labeled "Charge" showed green, and a solitary cousin labeled "ARMED - DO NOT OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR" glowed a sullen red. Naturally, both texts were in Sam’s handwriting. Bex found herself smiling at the notion of a cartoonish "You shall not pass" sign dropping in front of the door every time it armed.

Both women sloughed gear, thumping dust off of camping mats from plastic stacking shelves in the corner, and arrange their packs and weapons around them. A steel table nestled against the wall to the left from the entrance, and Bex perched on it, swinging her feet and feeling entirely like a child in a doctor’s office. Ronnie unwound the paracord from her hand, and then gently slid the glove off. Bex flexed her fingers experimentally, and it looked like she was going to get away with only some stiffness and a gnarly-looking bruise. She chuckled to herself at the memory of folks who used to get ring tattoos — not quite what she had been contemplating earlier in the afternoon.

Soon the bucket had filled enough for her to ladle out some water for a quick rinse of her hands, face, the back of her neck and — oh Jesus, yeah — under her arms. She needed to loot a pharmacy or some poor deceased-or-evacuated woman’s bathroom sometime. The homemade soaps back at the Broadway showers were a divine blessing after the end of the world, but didn’t really have any antiperspirant properties… nothing beat a little tetrachloro-whatsit for long treks through garbage-ridden alleys and stressful gunfights on humid afternoons.

Around 7, they splurged on dinner, sharing a can of mandarin oranges from the shelf stocks to accompany their MRE’s. Ronnie probed a bit to make sure Bex hadn’t started to believe Rogelio’s bullshit, and Bex assured her that her comparative opinions of the two brothers brought similarly disparate credibility. But…

"It’s just… weird and surreal. Killing his brother… knowing both of their mom’s sons are dead. There’s a lot of blood around it all. The guy that… that murdered Jaime while I was in the next room. He was the first person I’ve killed, you know? I mean, I’m totally okay with it… bastard… but now today too…" Ronnie nodded along sympathetically, and Bex continued. "I mean, I guess maybe now they’re together now, maybe with their mother?"

"Honey… I’m pretty sure he’s not going to the same place your man is looking down from… if you get my drift." Now Ronnie was shaking her head at her while they checked over their weapons, topped off magazines, and the like. "But you didn’t drop him in cold blood. Any which way you look at it, he had it coming."

Bex chuckled slightly, and did her best to affect a retro Chicago accent. "He ran into my buckshot ten times?"

Eyes were definitely rolled. "Just… leave the sassy black woman quotes to me, all right? You’re horrible."

"Fine, but you stay the hell away from everything even vaguely Shakespearean, thou butcherer of prose."

Bex was going to call that exchange a draw.

**

She was helping load buckets and tools into Leonard’s truck. Everything was normal, optimistic, and almost everyday. Allie was laughing her little titter, making fun of Leonard for something blurry.

Now she was watching herself like a spectator. Jaime arrived with backpacks and tarps, and she watched other-herself take an armload to help, and then lean into him under his arm for a kiss just above her right eyebrow. That’s just where they lined up against each other. She remembers starting to like it, associate it with their identity as a couple.

They were riding in the back of the truck. Bex watched from by the tailgate, Rebecca sat on the folded tarp with Jaime, leaning back against the cab. Leonard eventually stopped decelerating from their easy pace every time he saw a stop sign, and accepted he could roll through them with a glance.

Rebecca was wearing cutoff cargo pants, with a zip-up hoodie over a black tank top as proof against the morning chill. She’d left it half zipped, letting Jaime have a view to enjoy. She was certain the jostles and bumps in the truckbed would do interesting things, and if he noticed, good for him. He’d had that bath ready and the good sense to make himself scarce until a good soak warmed her body and cooled her temper. Bex sat clad in a bulletproof vest, a tactical load-bearing vest over it… a filter mask covering the lower half of her face.

They were parked out front in the hotel’s drop-off loop. Leonard and Allie were scraping at the soil in the decorative plantings. Jaime and Rebecca declared they’d go investigate the kitchen, the lounge. Bex stood in front of them. She told them to stay outside, stick together. Help the others. Then they were behind her. She followed, screaming at them, begging. Turn around! Just look for more clothes. Find an empty room and make out on a real bed. Just stop!

They were in the restaurant. Bex was at the bar, drowning her powerlessness in a coffee mug of moonshine, every swig came right back out as tears.

She was in front of them at the short hallway leading to the back-of-house. She tried to trip them. Took a swing at each of them. They didn’t dodge, they didn’t ghost through her. They just weren’t there anymore, now they were behind her, past her again. She followed them through the double doors. Screamed at the other-herself in jealous rage when they did a brief one-arm hug. Threw a big sheet pan at… where they were when she threw it.

The two of her went into a side room ahead of them that turned to the right. Dishwashing station and such. Jaime turned into another door just after. Bex told Rebecca there was still time. Go to him. Call to him. Get your gun out of your pocket. Both heard Jaime’s voice from the other side of the wall. Bex ran to the doorway further ahead, but didn’t see anyone. Rebecca tilted her head in puzzlement.

"Oh, uh, hi! Sorry if this is your place… we weren’t sure if.. hey man, wait! Be cool, we…"

The first shot banged out, sharper than a pistol. The loudest "crack" sound she’d ever heard. Both of them flinched. Bex looked back at Rebecca. Her face was blank with shock but she was fishing in her pocket for the gun and starting to move forward. Bex looked into the main kitchen again, and saw the man now - 50’s, Caucasian. Chiseled features. She heard Rebecca scream in protest just as he finished cycling the bolt - up, back, forward, down… oddly, he already had bullet wounds where Rebecca was about to shoot him. The second shot rang out. Bex tried to reach for her own copy of the pistol, in the horizontal holster low on the left side of her vest, right where she grew used to reaching when it was in her pockets, but the holster was empty. 

They both screamed a "Noooo!" of desperate rage. Rebecca fired once. The laser was on, but the shot was rushed, and it only clipped the man high on the shoulder. Bex willed Rebecca to aim… and the younger her brought her second hand to the pistol. Both thumbs forward below the slide. Elbows ever so slightly bent, rotated inwards to lock them, pistol aligned with her center. Squeeze, release and feel for the click of the reset. Squeeze, release. Squeezereleasesqueezereleasesqueezerelease. Screaming in defiance. Laser touches each bullet wound before a new splash of blood puffs from it, gushing in larger quantities from the exit wound. He collapses with a gurgle, and she advances a step, firing down into him twice more. One hits just below his throat, the other just below his right cheekbone, fracturing the brown floor tile and splattering red gore like a dropped jar of tomato sauce.

There’s only one of her now, rushing to Jaime’s side, an incoherent babble of his name, protestations, and terms of endearment on her lips as she frantically whips her sweatshirt off, trying to press it into his wounds. She grabs dusty aprons from where they sat neatly folded under the counter when she realizes the puddle of blood is growing from beneath him, lifting him partway into her lap as she tries to reach where it’s coming from. A few heartbreaking moments of shared realization when their gazes meet.

Holding him close with her left arm as she bends her forehead to his, telling her she loves him between sobs. Kissing him as she feels him lift her right hand to the medallion bearing the impression of Saint Christopher, from his grandmother, closing her hand over it, his hand over hers.

Bex is beside them again, one of his tattoos that he’d offered to remove and she told him to keep is now a bandage in her hands, that she was trying to hold to his chest to gain Rebecca a few more moments, but it keeps sliding off. She watches her, hair fallen forward obscuring their faces, whispering to him between sniffles and wracking sobs. Bex remembers exactly when his hand goes limp on hers, but Rebecca keeps whispering for nearly a minute before she falls silent a short while, until the sobs stack on top of each other and grow into wails.

Bex sees, but Rebecca doesn’t notice, Allie and Leonard burst into the kitchen, hoe and shovel in hand. Allie drops hers, covering her mouth with both hands in horror as her eyes start to shine, and runs to embrace Rebecca, who still clings to Jaime. Bex dispassionately watches Leonard halt in shock, then go around the other side of the prep tables and hanging utensils with his shovel raised like a spear until he sees the other body up close. He comes over to Jaime’s feet and crouches down, one hand braced on the floor where he lays down the shovel, the other covering his face.

They’re back in the truck, one-third full of the fertile soil they sought. Jaime is shrouded in the tarp. Bex watches from the tailgate again. Rebecca has Leonard’s jacket wrapped around her shoulders, curled into a fetal ball in Allie’s arms. Leonard drives slowly, somberly, glancing in the rear view mirror frequently. Bex sees the end of the bolt-action rifle visible in the cab. If Leonard knew it split in half, he might have thought to hide it like that out of sight. She knows their supplies will wane in the coming weeks, partly because they never leave her by herself. She knows Leonard will wait as long as he can before bringing up using the scoped rifle to hunt deer in the riverbed open space. She knows Rebecca will become the better shot of the two under his tutelage, with her younger eyes. She knows they’ll lay Jaime to rest in "their" garden upstairs, that Rebecca will chisel an inscription into a hunk of concrete with rebar and a rock, that beneath his name and the dates of his life, it will say "Here lies the good man I loved, and here lies my heart." Some of her own blood will be left on it from her scraped hands.

She knew Leonard and Allie move her in with them. Even now, Bex feels a pre-emptive, retroactive warmth towards them. Allie will stay by her side for weeks as she starts to go through the motions. Two more couples are invited to join them, the second with two kids. The family will tell them of another settlement. She’ll decide over time that while she is tremendously grateful for everyone, it’s too painful to stay. Leonard and the husband in the childless couple offer to escort her there. She protests but Allie eventually plants the seed of frail hope for a new start. The second man brings his lever-action rifle, leaving his two revolvers with the residents while they’re away. Leonard absolves her of her feelings of obligation, telling her the new hands will help them prosper, and they would even benefit from contacting another settlement.

She knows they make the trip successfully over two days. The new settlement is enthusiastic to learn of another. They’ll radio a military convoy that just left a day before, and the patrol happily doubles back to give them a ride, to be guided and introduced to the other settlement. She hugs both men and thanks them sincerely for helping her. They assure her it was the right thing to do, a moral imperative, that she’d do it for them, and Jaime would have too. Leonard tells her Allie promises to tend the rooftop garden. She knows a muscular black woman will be eating in the dining area when she is guided through on a tour, and recognize her familiar thousand yard stare, though Rebecca won’t notice her at first. The woman will see to it that she is involved with her orientation, her tasking, and her training. The woman will brook no argument and bosses her around for her own good. She’ll start to get better. Work and training enforce movement, make her get up. Not let her stay in her hole. People will gently push her to connect. People will need her. She’ll answer that call.

Bex looks at Rebecca once again, wishing she could tell her. That things might not be "good" by now, but she’ll breathe easier. She’ll still miss Jaime, but eventually he’ll stop being the first thing she thinks of every morning… one day he’ll be the second thing. That one day when she dreams of him, she’ll have this dream.

**

As often happens with dreams, realizing she was in one woke her. Either her gasp or the clatter of reaching for her M4 roused Ronnie too. Bex panted for a few moments as she lowered the gun back beside her.

Ronnie didn’t say anything. She just looked at Bex patiently and waited for her to speak.

"Ronnie…" Bex gathered her thoughts. "When you lost people in Afghanistan… were any of them people you…" Her sentence trailed off as she gestured with a hand.

"You should say it, hon." Ronnie’s voice was gentle.

Bex frowned a little in determination. "Were they ever people you loved?"

"Well." Ronnie sat forward a little more. "That’s a big word. Not like you mean, ranks complicated things, and same service, well, that’s just messy. But… when it’s someone who reports to you, they’re one of your people. You feel responsible for them, and good leaders adore their followers for their loyalty. It fosters more. When it’s your colleague, you feel loyal to each other, a bond of equals in the face of adversity." She paused for a breath. "When it’s an officer or leader, it’s someone you look up to. So, I guess…. it can be a similarly sized serving of shit, but a little different flavor?"

Rhonda couldn’t figure out why that made Bex collapse into a brief paroxysm of giggles and looked at her like she was nuts. "Oh… sorry. Heh. I… Jaime described jail food very similarly one time… wooo…" Bex fanned her eyes, smiling and sighing. "Oh man. Well done, Ronnie. I needed that."

"Ah. Well. Clearly in my infinite wisdom, I meant to do that. Eventually the bittersweet mellows a little, and you carry on for them. Make their life, and the loss, mean something. Continue the mission, continue living well. He’d be glad you’re breathing easier, trust me."

"Is that an order?"

Rhonda tilted her head to one side. "Does it have to be?"

Bex stood halfway up and dragged her mat over to form a "T" with Ronnie’s, where she’d been resting propped against a pillar. "Not ever, Sarge." Rhonda was a tad bemused when the young woman lay down on her own mat but rested her head on her thigh. "Thank you, Ronnie. For everything."

They were wearing most of their gear, but they could doze well enough upright or flat on their backs. Bex pulled her cap down over her eyes like Indiana Jones taking a nap and sighed. Ronnie was right. She missed him all the time, but she was right.

Rhonda shook her head as she leaned back against the column. This summer camp puppy pile nonsense would never have flown in the Corps. But… she put her arm down and patted the layers of armor and tactical webbing on Bex’s chest. Good metaphor, really. Poor kid. Such a big heart in such a shitty, fucked up world, having to armor up and learn to protect her vulnerabilities. She was proving to be a tough little cookie where it counts, though. Ronnie was proud of her.

**

The shrill tone of a high-pitched electronic beep woke them again. Bex rolled upright to get clear of Ronnie and reached for her gun — only it wasn’t there, it was back where she first set it down. She looked back as she scrambled for it and saw Ronnie picking up her P90, and beyond her a spinning red light like on an old fire engine by the door. Moments later, there was a loud clattering WHUMP from beyond the door, accompanied shortly by screaming. She was just reaching her gun as two canisters flew through the door as it opened.

Rhonda called out a warning by force of habit and dove for the side of the pillar. Bex tried to convert her forward motion into a roll to cover, snatching up the M4 as she went, but then her world turned into a migraine. All she could see was stars and retinal after-images, and her ears rang while sending corrupted positional data to her brain. She heard a distant ticking noise that was probably Ronnie’s P90, and then she stumbled over her M4, heard faint footsteps, and was hit from behind.

Someone shoved her towards the wall she remembered being just a few feet ahead, and she managed to get her arms up in time to get away with only a few scrapes to her cheeks instead of knocking into it headfirst. Her grunt was also a half snarl as she tried to lash out behind her, but she felt her left wrist get grabbed and twisted to force that arm behind her back. Someone’s weight pinned her up against the wall, and she tried to keep her right arm tucked in close to protect it.

She began to hear thuds and crashes of hand to hand combat — Ronnie must be mobile but disarmed. She tried to drive her heels into the shins and kneecaps of her assailant, but they had leg guards that deflected her stomps. How was that fair?!?

A voice very close behind her was yelling about how she should stop struggling, giving her somewhere to aim a backwards headbutt. It didn’t hit as hard as she’d hoped, but there was swearing. Unfortunately, they also squeezed her wrist and hand tighter, sending a searing jab up from her bruised finger. She couldn’t help crying out in pain as she was rammed into the wall again, knocking her cap off.

"For fuck’s sake, princess! Stop! Dammit…" A thoroughly antagonized male voice came from over her left shoulder. Her eyes snapped open and she turned her head against the wall to glare burning hate at the blurry figure. 

"Y’know the one word there you probably shouldn't have said?" Her snarl was feral, through clenched teeth. 

Ronnie’s voice came from far away, amid grunts and thumps. "Oh, now you’ve done it." This was followed by a grunt of exertion and a heavy thud that usually she only heard when Ronnie had just thrown Bex on her own ass in sparring sessions.

Thinkthinkthink. This guy has position, strength, and leverage. What do I have that he doesn’t? Girls in video games usually had… agility and boobs? Boobs were not going to be any help in a tactical situation. They’re usually all on display in form-fitting body ar… that’s it! Her bulletproof vest was very generically shaped, not tailored for women. It was a stiff, flat sandwich of synthetic fibers and a steel strike plate over her most vital organs, and was never quite comfortable.

She hadn’t ever really thought of herself as "abundant", they stayed under control in volleyball with a decent sports bra. But, the armor always put more pressure on her chest than her abdomen and sure enough, the wall was doing the same. Maybe, just maybe there’ll be enough space for…

She tried to curl her pelvis forward and "slouch" her back as much as she could, and then shoved her right hand in front of her abdomen. Yes! There was just enough of a gap BEHIND her armor that she could push it in slightly. Ignoring her knuckles skinning against the wall, she strained to pop the two lower clips on the load-bearing tactical vest she wore layered over her armor… then push a little farther… and her fingers found the familiar rubberized grip of her 9mm.

With another snarl, she pushed on it as hard as she could, getting the holster to protrude past her ribs on the left. Thumb the safety off and POW. The shot sounded oddly muffled, and she couldn’t get it to fire a second time, but a few grams of copper-sheathed lead moving at roughly a thousand feet per second elicited a shocked cry from her assailant and knocked him back.

She got her left hand on the correct side of her body and gave him a good elbow strike. Unfortunately, he still had a hand on her back, and it pulled her over as he staggered and fell. He landed on his ass, she on her hands and knees, so she punched him in the crotch, and when her pistol wouldn’t leave the holster, dove for a spherical grenade on his chest. She snatched it away and rolled back towards the middle of the room, pulling the pin and holding the grenade up above her head in her left hand.

"Hey! Assholes! Princess has a primed frag grenade so sit the FUCK DOWN!"

The man she had been fighting froze, no longer trying to sit back up… and the one squared off with Ronnie kept his guard up but looked over. "You wouldn’t, you’d kill both of you too," he sneered.

She shot him the look rich with the disdain that any man speaking patronizingly to a woman with an armed explosive should get. Her version was a severe head tilt and an eyebrow lift. "Try me. I have been off my meds for months. I killed two men for calling me a whore earlier today, and am in NO FUCKING MOOD."

The pause this gave him gave HER enough time to figure out her pistol’s slide must have bit on the holster material, and how to remediate it with her right hand. Safety on. Push deeper into the holster, rotate her wrist, muzzle down a smidge, withdraw. Abracadabra, asshole.

Thump bottom of magazine / handgrip against her hip. Hook rear sight on her belt, shove downwards and release, safety back off. She heard the tinkle of either the first shot’s shell or a trapped round bounce away, and saw the loaded chamber indicator protruding slightly from the slide when she raised it to eye level.

"And now I’m the only one in the room holding a gun too. I’m pretty sure that makes me the Head Bitch in Charge."

Ronnie backed away from her opponent to scoop up her P90 and nodded her way.

Tension eased from Bex slightly now that Ronnie was armed, but she still had a predatory grin on her face. She flicked her safety on, holstered the pistol again, plucked the grenade pin from the ground, and replaced it, careful to bend the two arms back into a "T" shape so it stayed in. She wiggled it at "her" guy on the floor. "Thanks for the loan."

He just groaned, and she shrugged. To the victor go the spoils. She hooked it on her own harness and re-readied her pistol. Looking over at Ronnie, she tried to ask in disturbingly cheerful a tone as possible, her very best Harley Quinn impersonation, "Is this where we get to play 'who answers questions and who gets shot'? I like that game!"

**

Ronnie stepped over to the same corner of the room and whispered to Bex. "That… was pretty hardcore, girl. Not bad."

Bex winked at her and clicked her tongue against her teeth. "Thanks." Then, much quieter, as each of them kept a gun trained. "But the truth is, I have no fucking clue what to do next."

Ronnie apparently wasn’t going to make it easy for her. "Well, what did we learn this afternoon?"

"Never get involved in a land war in… I mean, take their stuff?"

Ronnie groaned a bit and nodded. "Yes, good place to start…"

Bex winced. "Oh, shit. I’m sorry, I’m such an ass."

"Huh?" Ronnie frowned back at her.

"I forgot. You know. Afghanistan. Land war. Asia…I didn’t think…" She really felt like an insensitive clod.. and in front of strangers too.

"Oh, hah. No, we made that joke ourselves all the fucking time. I just had to watch that movie too much babysitting my nephew." Then, to the captives: "Ok, limpdicks. Comedy skit’s over. Gear off. Slowly. Or we just accept your shit will have holes in it when we take it off your bodies."

The standing guy, Rhonda’s opponent, grumbled and Bex’s vanquished foe grimaced and groaned as they shucked their combat harnesses and armor. It was pretty fancy, clean and high-tech looking stuff. Dark color scheme, almost all black. Their long guns, slung over their backs when they rushed in, where compact but otherwise fairly standard AR-15 style carbines, in much better condition than her M4. Neither had a sidearm. A quick peek in to the tunnel revealed a corpse against the far wall and dozens of fresh gouges in the masonry around it and in the vestibule. They didn’t expect much to be salvageable after a direct, almost zero-range shredding by a Claymore antipersonnel mine, so they deprioritized checking the body for later.

Once they’d made the men put their own handcuffs on, and advanced at gunpoint to click them snugly, Bex watched them while Rhonda dragged the table back in front of the door and snugged it up against the doorframe, since apparently the deadbolt wasn’t doing much good.

Ronnie and Standing Guy leaned against opposite walls, watching each other coolly. Bex left them like that and took a knee about ten feet from the one she’d laid out. Keeping the pistol on him for emphasis… "If I come over there to check on the hole I put in you, are you going to do something stupid?"

The man shook his head. Dark hair, military cut. Caucasian. May have access to sunscreen. "No ma’am. I’d rather not bleed out, all things considered."

(Sigh.) "Fine. But if you 'ma’am' me again, I’m going to put another hole in you." He was somewhere in his mid to late twenties. A touch babyfaced, but more developed facial hair than National Guard Guy (David!) based on that five-o’clock shadow.

"Right. Got it. Shutting up now." She sighed, and pointedly arched an eyebrow at him as she set the pistol down behind her. She flipped through the medkit he used to be carrying, dumped the scalpel and medical shears, and moved closer again, weight balanced to kick him in the face if he tried anything. He watched her warily too — good.

His black t-shirt was wet with blood on the left side just above his hip… but it wasn’t spilling onto the floor. She popped on disposable gloves from the kit, and lifted his shirt up to his ribs on that side, watching for any shift, any muscle tension. None appeared, so she relaxed just a hair.

The bullet had made a weird scratch along his left side, an inch or two above his hip. There were fibers from both his shirt and the tactical gear in parts of it — she probably grazed the edge of his armor. She almost told him it "'twas merely a flesh wound", but thought it safer to let him think he needed treatment. "Ever been shot before?"

He winced when she started blotting the gouge with gauze, checking periodically to see if that was removing the foreign material, but it wasn’t enough. "No ma… uh, no. I hear you never forget your first."

"Pfft. Your water, is it clean?" She jerked her head towards his pile of gear.

"Yes. Osmosis and UV." She nodded and retrieved the hydration bladder, resting a knee on it near his side. More wincing as she rinsed the length of his wound.

"Ow. Shit. Listen, I’m sorry."

She paused and quirked an eyebrow. "What?"

"That you got hurt." Typical male, dodging responsibility at the linguistic level. "We were supposed to use tasers, but those got blown to shit with the LT when he opened the door first."

"Oh, yeah. sure." Bex did her best to mimic a Jennifer Lawrence meme gif she’d seen a while back, with an eyeroll and sarcastic nod. "Because getting tased totally sounds like fun and makes me feel better. Also, should have knocked." She went back to blotting the wound dry with new gauze. "Think very carefully about this next question before you answer. Why did you call me 'princess'?"

He glanced up at her braided hair, and then her eyes, her mouth, and back to her eyes. "Well… I mean.. your hair kinda looks like Leia when she was on Endor in Return of the Jedi. I’m guessing that word should go on the blacklist with 'ma’am' then?" He winced again as she sprayed a sterilizer on the gash, and she noticed him watching her hands, then looking up at her shoulders, exposed by rolled up tee sleeves, and her neck. Jesus Christ, was he actually checking her out? Unfuckingbelievable. "But, I mean, your hand, when you screamed, I’m sorry for that."

She laughed tersely. "That? Pre-existing wound, you don’t get credit for that. Wimp." There was a sputter of suppressed laughter from Ronnie’s general vicinity.

As she was taping an outer layer of gauze in place over the wound, he apparently wasn’t done. "When we got orders to capture the team stopping over here, I didn’t expect you to be so hot.. I mean, I didn’t expect it to be two women…" Oh, for fuck’s sake! At least the blush made it seem genuinely possible he hadn’t meant to say that part. He stayed silent when she rose, stripped off the gloves inside out, and threw the crumpled bundle in his direction.

She returned to the kit, retrieved two alcohol pads, used one to wipe down her hands and forearms, and then used the other to blot her cheek and forehead as she collected the pistol and stood, trying not to grimace at the stinging. From a few feet farther away, she made eye contact with Ronnie while pinching the bridge of her nose. She got a small shrug. Sigh.

While Bex was unoccupied and could watch the capturers-turned-captive, Rhonda keyed up her radio and started transmitting. "Control Actual, Sierra Charlie. Control Actual, Sierra Charlie immediate."

A slightly startled voice crackled back a reply in Bex’s ear. "Go for Control Actual." 

"Hotel compromised. Three new-affiliation hostiles…"

Bex pulled the earplug and earbud from her ears, She was hearing Ronnie’s voice from somewhere else in the room… to her right, on the floor… shit! She ran over to where Star Wars Fanboy’s gear was, and held up his earpiece to listen. "… look like professionals, nonstandard gear. I’m thinking PMC…"

"Ronnie!" Bex held the earpiece higher for her to see. Ronnie’s eyes widened.

"Control actual, Babel. Say again, Babel, Babel." Bex dropped the "badguy" gear and put her earpiece back in.

A pause… "Solid copy, Sierra Charlie. All stations, Babel, Babel." Both women pulled their radio handsets out with their offhand and began methodically pushing a sequence of buttons.

Standing guy smirked at them. "Pre-established procedures for compromised comms. You’re smarter than you look…"

Bex squinted derisively at him and turned back to the Star Wars Fan. "How’d you get our frequencies and encryption keys?"

"From the first two radios we…" Two?!?

"Shut up, dumbass! What the hell are you doing?" Standing guy took a step in their direction but stopped when Rhonda brought the P90 from hip to shoulder. 

SWF started to defend himself. "Look man, I’m not sure we…"

"Shut the fuck up! They’re…"

"What, they’re 'the enemy'? We were supposed to be gathering intel! Not hurting people!"

"You motherfucking cowardly traitor!"

Bex locked eyes with Ronnie, pointedly putting the earplug in her left ear. The other woman moved her earmuffs up from around her neck to her head. Standing guy was inhaling for another invective when Bex nonchalantly shot him a few inches above his left knee, firing from the hip thanks to the laser.

"Aaargh! You bitch, you shot me!"

Bex batted her eyelashes and tried to channel post-Joker Harley again after the echoes from the sharp pop had subsided. "Cupcake, I told you what game we were playing! You have to follow the rules!" Then, to Ronnie, who looked a little shocked herself, "How’s it look?"

"Well, you missed the artery…"

"Oh, good." She sighed. Fine then. She paced momentarily and then stood still, facing away from the Padawan with his guilty conscience over there, as if in thought. She made sure to throw her weight to one side so her hips tilted as she holstered her pistol, and made a show of running her hands — both simultaneously — over her hair as if straightening it after the tussle. For realism, she readjusted her hair tie in the rear, but she intentionally hooked a pinky on the way back to pull a tendril loose, leaving it hanging down one side of her face, still kinked and twirly from being in the braid. Symmetry was usually favorable in attractiveness studies, but something unique, one thing that stands out, was thought to improve memorability. If he liked her shoulders — and admittedly, the apocalypse had been good for them — the aspiring Jedi over there should have enjoyed the first act as she messed with her hair, and be ready for the next.

Sheesh, she hadn’t thrown this much game at anyone since the farmboy, who she’d had totally wrapped around her finger before dessert. She’d just… never had to with Jaime. Everything was so natural. Maybe that would take this easier, reduce comparisons to things with him. She still sighed and apologized to him silently.

"Okay." She walked back over to Star Wars and plopped down cross-legged a few feet away. Leaning forward a little, she rested her chin on her hand — her left hand, specifically — let’s sprinkle a little guilt on top, shall we? She made sure to hold her eyes open just a millimeter wider than default — not uncomfortable, just needed to do it intentionally — and let her lips part ever so slightly when she wasn’t speaking. "I’m sorry you had to see that. You were saying something about radios?"

"Don’t tell her anything! Can’t you see she’s playing you?"

She looked at Ronnie. "Their first aid kits have little rolls of duct tape." (So did Ronnie’s and hers, but no need to reveal information… or use their own stuff.) Footsteps. Ziiiip. Pat-pat.

"Mmmph!" Ahh, that’s better. She simply smiled at her subject and waited.

"Well, um…"

Ok, she needed to nudge him to get momentum back. "So… I know you’re conflicted right now, and I don’t blame you. But, I’m pretty sure you think I have a pretty good theory about what’s going on, you know?"

"Uh, yeah. I guess you’re right. We have two of your radios…"

"…and probably the two people that were carrying them? I really hope the fact you were out to capture, not kill, me and my friend means those other people aren’t dead either?" (Cue worried frown.)

"No, no no. They’re ok. They’re… just… "

Resistance here. Still torn on loyalty. Distract. "Oh, good. I’m so relieved to hear that." Loud sigh. Reward him with a smile and lean back a little to draw him out. Rest palms on legs, push up to straighten and stretch back, roll shoulders.

"But… just changing your codes won’t help, we’ll just get the new ones from them…" Bex just kept smiling at him in reply. "Unless… ah. Compartmentalization. Separate codes for command and tactical. Support staff won’t know them."

"Maybe we’re smarter than we look." Cast line, reel reel reel…

"Eh, I dunno about… um…" Heh. Hooked and flustered. Don’t give him time to think about it.

"So, you seem pretty smart too. I’m sure you’re expecting me to ask where my friends are. And, you know, your friend there…" (made enough inroads to take a gamble. Risks reminding him of a bond, but based on how they were arguing…) "… is right, I am trying to get information from you. I’m just trying to get my friends back home. Hang on.. that’s probably what this is about, isn’t it?" Ah, subtle annoyed glance at the other guy. Not friend. "You’re trying to find out about where we live?"

"Yeah. And the area around here."

"Mmmrph! Mm mm mrph mm!" Draw pistol, lean back, put laser on his other knee. Silence…

Star Wars boy again: "Heh. Uhm, I hope you don’t mind me saying, and also please don’t shoot me again, but I didn’t have you pegged as the Bad Cop."

Put pistol away. "It’s dangerous to judge a girl by her looks." Too much? Will he read it as artificial?

"Ahh, yeah. I’m starting to think you’re kind of both."

"Eh, I’m flexible." Oh good LORD she was struggling not to roll her eyes at herself. She did, however, nod towards Ronnie. "But you never know, she could be 'Worse Cop' over there."

"But she hasn’t shot anyone yet!"

"I concede your point." Give and take. "But if she does, we probably wouldn’t be able to keep talking to them. Anyway. You have me at a disadvantage." (Let him read into that if he wants to. ) "You know a lot about my friends, where we live, this place here… can you at least tell me your name?"

"I’m Sebastian, my friends call me Seb."

"Thanks, Seb." (I am one of your friends, you see…) "My name’s Rebecca, but I’ve always kind of hated that. Please call me Becca, like everyone else does." See, you’re doing me a favor, and I told you a secret. Like friends do for each other. Also, traceable information, we’ll know where it comes from if we hear it somewhere else. Emphasis on the 'everyone' for Ronnie’s ears. "Seb… I’m trying to find my friends and get them home. Despite having slammed me into a wall, you seem a decent fellow." Bex heard a groan from Ronnie. Heh. 

"Obviously, I’d like for us to trust each other, but there’s a lot I don’t know about you, or this group you’re on this mission for. Heck, maybe there’s been a misunderstanding and we all just got off on the wrong foot, and here we are, introducing ourselves, and I’m still too nervous about uncuffing you to shake your hand. Do you think you can tell me a little about yourself?"

That got a nod, so she kept gently reeling. "Would you feel more comfortable if he couldn’t hear?" She titled her head to indicate the less cooperative guy. 

"I, uh, you’re not going to shoot him, are you?"

"Do you want me to?" Bex kept her expression frozen in the same patient listening face.

"NO! No. Jesus…"

"Okay, good. I would’ve been uncomfortable if you’d said yes." Bex showed him a taunting grin.

"Actually, do you think we could see to his leg? I know he’s kinda a dick, but.. he is leaking pretty good."

"Mmm. Congratulations on confirming you’re a human, Seb. I’m going to have to step away for that. Will you promise me you’re not going to do anything?"

"Yeah. I promise. I won’t try any bullshit."

"Thanks. I’ll try to bring you some water when I come back." Sebastian’s eyes widened as she drew her pistol as she rose and started to turn away. She paused. "I will try my very level best not to shoot him. I swear." Then, louder: "But that depends a lot on him!"

**

Bex had watched over Ronnie from a 45 degree angle, on the opposite side of their patient’s feet… whichever way he might move, even / especially at Ronnie, she’d have a clear shot. The laser at the base of his throat, and her held shooting stance, emphasized the point.

Rhonda had cut away his fancy-ass, excessively clean BDU’s below the left thigh, sterilized, packed, and covered both ends of the wound tunnel, then cinched compression knots down on both sides. She even fed him 800mg of ibuprofen from his medkit.. but she made him dry-swallow it. Mostly, she just didn’t want to listen to any whining. The opiates in there were going back to the infirmary at home, not this jackass.

The ladies soon stood in a corner, guns still in hand. Pegleg there had closed his eyes where he lay, and Seb had looked to the nearest pillar and back to Bex questioningly, and nodded a thanks when she jerked her chin towards it. She still kept an eye on him while he scooted over and put his back against it. Ronnie continued what she was saying. "… it’s just, damn girl. You have been on fire. Where’s all this coming from?"

"I’m not sure yet, honestly," she replied in the same low voice. I think you and Sam put me in a good place for a while, and life threw me a bunch of shit to overcome. Or, I could totally be going manic and repressing the hell out of things." Ronnie nodded, seemingly at both possibilities. Bex continued. "So, uh, how am I doing at my first interrogation?"

"Well, I think you’re building trust with mister Seb there pretty well. But.. I know the Geneva Convention is kinda in the dumpster right now, but shooting dipshit over there…. they came at us hard to grab us, but we don’t know how they treat prisoners yet. Just remember our actions might affect our own people down the road. Or these guys could be a bunch of assclowns, you found the only decent one in the lot, and we should waste the rest of them."

Bex cringed. "Shit. Yeah. I… I guess I’m still really keyed up after yesterday. I’ll try to watch my impulse control." Ronnie just patted her on the shoulder with a smile and walked back to a good line of sight on both captives.

Bex turned back towards Seb. She leant over to scoop up his hydration bladder, but the bite piece was pretty gross from the floor, and might have blood or god knows what else on it. So, she cringed apologetically to him and filled a metal cup from the supply shelf from the hanging "family sized" water filtration bag they’d filled after unpacking.

She walked back over towards Seb but stopped about eight feet away. "Seb? How many more of… " She caught herself before saying "of you" and accidentally reinforcing his association with… whoever the hell. "Do we need to worry about more people coming here?"

He shook his head. "No, I don’t think so. We were expected to potentially be radio silent for at least another day before checking in if you were a no-show. And… three of us were expected to outmatch a recon team of two, especially with the element of surprise. We all know how that worked out."

"Yeah, sorrynotsorry to disappoint you. How did you know when to hit?"

"Camera, outside in the shadows."

"Sneaky."

"Hey, that AP mine was a rude surprise too."

Bex let out a little snort. "I’ll pass on your compliments to the chef. She’ll be pleased." She unclipped her load vest and hung it over a folding chair near where she was standing, then approached him. Right before she knelt down, she "absentmindedly” tucked the loose swirl of hair behind her ear precisely so it would just drop loose again as soon as she leaned. She made intent eye contact at his side. "I am trusting you. Please don’t disappoint me."

He shook his head. "You’ll probably drown me with just that water you’re holding."

"Mmm, okay. Fear is a powerful motivator." She scooted the final inches (hair falling just as planned, and she saw his eyes drawn to the movement) needed to hold the cup to his lips and gently tilt it. "God, we only just met an hour ago and I’m already spoon feeding you in your old age…"

Seb coughed on a laugh and she backed off. "Gah. See? Death by drowning."

"I’d say I was sorry, but I’m trying to avoid lying to you. More?"

"No jokes this time?" He eyed her with mock wariness.

"Promise." (See, making and honoring commitments.) She let him finish without any further hijinks. Time to get him talking. "Okay, Seb. Can you tell me how you ended up with whoever these guys are? That should be pretty low OPSEC, right?" Hopefully there’d be something in there she could pry farther at… or with. He nodded, which she smiled at and then rocked back onto her heels to sit about three feet away, 90 degrees to his left, where it would be difficult to kick / leg snare or headbutt her.

In the background past him, she saw Ronnie wander over to her bag, open it, take out absolutely nothing at all, close it, and return to where she had been sitting with a wink. The pack was much closer to where Bex sat with Seb, and she was betting the smartphone sitting there was recording audio.

"So, I was Army Reserve before… well, Before. When NYC went to shit, rally orders went out. They hadn’t figured out where to send us just yet, but then hotspots started breaking out in big cities, especially travel hubs and then rippling out. I guess you know, you were there, because 'there' was eventually pretty much fucking everywhere." He paused to sigh. "We were sent to support a field hospital that popped up at a county airport in eastern Virginia, for whatever good it was going to do. When chain of command started breaking down and nobody knew what the fuck to do, riots broke out at the hospital and tent city that sprung up around it. We weren’t doing enough, we were only treating the rich, we were harvesting stem cells to save senators, there were all kinds of stories going around, and scared people believe anything. A handful of us were told to get the doctors and nurses out, and the airfield was overrun so we had to use ground transport. The captain actually sent some of the Humvees and a couple of ambulances out one way, and we put the docs in municipal utility trucks, unmarked cop cars, you name it, and went the other way."

"We had me and two other guys, two doctors, and a handful of orderlies in a pair of Crown Vics. We ran south towards where we thought there’d be another field hospital, but by the time we got there, well. There wasn’t. We split up… seemed like a dumb idea, but a bunch of people wanted to try to get to their folks, and some of us wanted to… dunno. Still help? Stay on mission? We puttered around for months, a couple of the medical types caught the bug." 

Bex flattened her lips sympathetically and let him continue. "Eventually me and the doc hear about this group of guys with hot shit gear in the neighborhood and go looking. We finally bump into a pack of them, and man, I tell you, they had ALL the toys, and nobody was sick. They went nuts at the chance to recruit the doc, and I guess he was grateful to me, because he told 'em to recruit me too. They said the President was dead, DC was fucked. Somehow they had been prepared enough they came through the outbreak okay. I mean, they had food, fuel, ammo… seemed like a pretty good option. That was like two months ago, and there’s some kind of big mobilization coming up that they want all kinds of regional intel for. Rumor is it’s either the Pentagon or DC…"

He trailed off then, and Bex took a turn. "When you say toys… like what?" She shifted from sitting cross-legged to hugging one knee to her chest with her chin on it. "… and do you know why they’re not sick?"

He waved his hands expressively. "Like, every kind of drone and comms gadget you can imagine. And, I think it was just a case of forewarned forearmed, really. And crazy-ass hazmat gear. Like, Nuclear-Biological-Chemical grade stuff all over the place." He shrugged as much as he could with his hands cuffed behind his back.

"Sounds pretty lucky… or pretty damned convenient." Bex stood up to stretch her legs, pacing a few feet back and forth while talking to him. "Do you think they knew it was coming?"

That got another shrug. "I never looked the gift horse in the mouth, but yeah, could be."

She nodded. "Woulda been nice for the rest of us too." She sighed and walked over to where the tac vest hung on the chair and pulled her own phone out. When she straightened after reaching it, her ribs and something in her back twinged and she grimaced. Tilting her head and clicking the joints in her neck, she took a deep breath and unclipped the top buckles on both sides of her armor vest so the top half loosened against her significantly. Whether or not it floated his boat, it was legitimately way easier to breathe now.. and it had been sitting oddly after the fight anyway. "Oh god, ow. That’s so much better."

He looked chagrined again. "Hey, like I said, I’m sorry."

She huffed a moment. "Buy me a hot stone massage after the apocalypse and we’ll talk."

"You SHOT me!"

"And I haven’t done it again! Yet. Plus, there is a total of zero ways you can explain things that you didn’t start it." One hand on her hip, let’s see if he takes the bait.

"Yeah you’ve got me there. I’m sorry." His brief indignation turned back into looking crestfallen.

"Also, you said you were in the Army Reserve?" Seb nodded and she continued. "So.. what were you? Rank, I mean."

"E-4… Corporal," he translated, after an impatient hand wave from Bex.

"I suppose I should tell you that you’re complicit in an assault on a Gunnery Sergeant." She inclined her head towards Ronnie.

"Ahh, shit. I’m sorry, ma’am." Bex arched her eyebrow in a nonverbal imminent threat. "I’m talking to her!!" Seb desperately nodded towards Rhonda. "I’m sorry, Gunny." Rhonda harrumphed.

Bex started to walk back towards him. "Nice job with the inter-branch relations there, buddy. Are you going to make a crayon-eating joke next? Also, I don’t think you’re s’posed to say 'Gunny' unless you’re considered on equal or superior footing. You’re lucky you were fighting me, cuz from what I understand, there’d be a lot of Marines vs. Army comments flying after she kicked your ass. Which she would have, way faster than I did. Anyway. What’re these guys called? We can’t really make sense of the logo on the uniform."

"Black Tusk. The Gunnery Sergeant is right, they’re a private military company. No idea on the name or company history, before you ask."

Bex shrugged and sank to one knee by him again. "Seb… it sounds like you’ve made the best out of a shitty situation. Story of the world these days, I guess. And, I know it’s going to seem like I have an agenda here, but you really do already know what it is." She held up her phone and swiped between the briefing photos. "These are my friends, Patrick and Christine. Is this who you got the radios from?"

He nodded. 

"Do you know if they’re okay?"

"To be honest, I only saw them in passing. But I think so."

"That’s still something, and reassuring. But, tell me something else. Have you seen Black Tusk help people? Ever hand out food, supplies, whatever?" She paused when he looked down silently. "Seb… I don’t know what their mission is, but these days, it seems you could rally a lot of people to a cause with even just a dribble of hope. Even… especially with their resources, if they had all that support, they’d have eyes on the ground everywhere. It’s how I’d do it."

His eyes snapped to hers. "You’re different."

Whoa. That was… intense. Maybe she was pushing too hard… but Pat, Chris. "I… uh… " Shit. Now he had her fumbling instead. She needed to regain initiative. "Seb… I’m worried. These guys… I can’t help but wonder why they’re not getting their info with the whole milk and cookies and antivirals, hearts and minds routine. I don’t see why they’d use snatch and grab… here on what’s left of American soil, on people who it sounds like they have totally outmatched. What don’t they want us to know about? It’s not like people out here in the shit would have any problem at all with stabilization of military command or restoration of government services. I’d LOVE to go back to paying taxes and my student loan interest… sign me the hell up, take a kidney if you need it, okay. But…instead, they’re out black-bagging locals? You said you’re sorry I got hurt. Do you think they are?" She paused. "I thought this world is scary, but… it’s starting to turn around maybe, a little bit. But I don’t know what their version is, and THAT scares me. How do I even know that you’re not playing Good Cop over here to that guy’s Bad Cop as a predefined backup plan?"

His eyes met hers again with determination behind them. "Your people… you have a stable settlement? Food, water, security?"

"Are you trying to pump the interrogator for information now? Well played. But, yes. Even some pretty vile hooch."

"You treat all your prisoners like this?"

She shrugged. "Based on a sample size of two, yeah, I do. Shot one, chatted up the other. We do have our assholes, but even they mean well. They just can’t help it. Again, you’re lucky I’m the one that kicked your ass."

"And shot me too!"

They both chuckled. "In fairness, that was before you were our captive, and usually when I shoot people, they die and we take their stuff. I guess you didn’t deserve it as much as they did. I’m almost sorry I cockpunched you."

"Hah." He still cringed at the memory, and maybe a lingering ache that discussing it had reminded him of. "I might have almost deserved it. I do feel sorry for your boyfriends though, you play pretty rough."

Bex’s facade cracked and grief flashed across her face before she looked away. She replied to Ronnie’s immediate scowl with a little half smile but stayed silent for several seconds. Eventually, her voice small, the intentional ebullience gone, without eye contact… "Don’t. Don’t go there."

Seb looked down at his feet. "I’m sorry. Of course. Everyone’s lost people. That was really stupid."

Everyone remained silent for several more interminable seconds. Eventually she turned back towards him again, taking a few more moments to make eye contact. "Make it up to me, Seb. Those two kids are just a pair of idiots in love who ran off looking for a little time together in this shithole world. Help me bring them home, Sebastien. Please."

He met her gaze for a few more seconds and sighed. "I like what you’d turn this shithole into more, I think."

She couldn’t get her smokescreen back up, but maybe that was okay. "Look. You probably know I’ve been trying to play you. But I need to help them and have no idea where to look. Everything I’ve told you has been true, even if I am trying to get information out of you."

He looked around, taking in the supplies, Rhonda, Bex, the only Black Tusk guy left in the room, his gear, their gear. "I’m in." He smiled at her. "Do me a favor?"

Relief flooded her face. Maybe some gratitude. "What’s up?"

"Can you get this piece of shit patch off my shoulder? And, Gunnery Sergeant, if I could borrow that stars n’ stripes off of your pack, just 'til I find another I’d really appreciate it."

Bex put her hand on his knee and smiled, less forced this time… and Rhonda replied from across the room, "Welcome back, soldier."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rescue mission, some new friends, a new spark, and a new threat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please see warnings and disclaimers and self deprecations on part 1!**

Rhonda sauntered over to their side of the room soon after, fulfilling Seb’s request with a none-too-gentle swat on the Velcro patch. Bex gratefully accepted some "Vitamin I" to try to evict the headache setting up camp between her temples (nothing like a flashbang to resurrect a hangover), while Ronnie explained she’d doped the other guy up on a Ketamine shot when they’d really gotten to talking. Apparently, Sleeping Beauty would be out for hours, so Seb could turn his coat (back) freely. Now mutually known, rank rapidly filled the interpersonal gap between them as habits re-established themselves.

"Filled", not "bridged", was definitely the right image, Bex had decided. They could probably use Seb’s automatic deference to Ronnie to their advantage, but any "warm fuzzies" angles were clearly going to remain her domain. Gunnery Sergeant Ellis’ inquiries started in the "know your enemy’s capabilities" department as she led with local force disposition, how much they knew about Broadway and the area — to Bex’s relief, the old construction site seemed to still be unknown to them — and eventually, equipment.

Seb’s estimate was that there were another ten or so Black Tusk operatives in the area, with a handful of aerial recon drones and at least two of some kind of quadrupedal weapons platform.

It sounded like their main immediate objective was researching viable routes through the city for large convoys, local resources that could be commandeered, and the competitors for those resources. They’d tracked a few of the military remnant convoys and had aerial footage of Broadway, plus a few days of comms traffic from the radios. Seb said he’d seen a handful of locations marked on a map where Bex and Rhonda knew of smaller independent survivor groups. Bex sincerely hoped the residents remained unmolested, and the best Seb had to offer was an apologetic shrug.

Their missing couple was almost definitely at the encampment the PMC had established in the basement and mechanical rooms of another office building just inside of a mile away.

Around then, he asked for another drink. Bex was uncomfortable with the intimacy of holding the cup to his mouth again, so they loosened his cuffs enough for him to rotate his wrists and slip the cuffs and his still-attached hands under his feet to his front again. After allowing his refreshment, their attention pivoted to their pillaged equipment. Much of it was fairly standard other than its surprisingly fresh condition, but when they came to the load carrying gear and armor, Bex noticed Seb looking at her appraisingly from across the room.

She sighed, her eyes half-closed with irritation. "What? I was under the impression you already decided earlier that you like what you see."

"Ah, no, I mean, your armor." She thought she spotted another blush in the mediocre (hangover-friendly before someone threw a pair of goddamned flash grenades into it…) lighting.

"Yes, it’s armor. It tends to help protect me from people who try to shoot me. Or kidnap me."

Seb winced a little at the jab, an important reminder that this frail little flower has thorns. "But you’re obviously not comfortable in it, even when some dumbass isn’t roughing you up." He was clearly trying to work in a little self-deprecating apology, so she made the concession of silencing another barbed retort. "It looks civilian or law enforcement. What’s it rated for?"

Ronnie stepped in to rescue Bex in a couple of different ways. "It’s Threat Level II, with Level IV strike plates. What’s your point, Corporal?"

Seb gestured towards his discarded equipment. "If you’re going after your people, which doesn’t seem to be up for debate, maybe you should take ours. It’s Level III most of the way around, and IV in a much larger area front and rear, compared to those strike plates. Plus, it’s partially articulated, so not only is it pretty adjustable, but it’s surprisingly easy to move in. Really, I think you should try it on." His attention returned to Bex, who looked to Rhonda, who again replied with a shrug.

Bex sighed and waved her hand in a "let’s get on with it already" gesture and examined the armor more closely. It shared the Black Tusk color scheme with their uniforms: mostly black and dark grey, not in a mottled camouflage pattern, purely symmetrical, but intermingled enough to still work decently for urban concealment in any sort of shadowed or dim environment. The fresh gouge in a lower corner demonstrated that at least on the main armor segments, the color was imbued in the material, not a layer of paint. The cuirass-like armor was built in front and back halves, connected at the top like a traditional "bulletproof vest" — just far more sci-fi looking. Bex thought it would look at home on a couple of different futuristic super-soldiers, pick your franchise.

She did notice the upper torso and abdomen sections moved a little bit in relation to each other, and there seemed to be a significant amount of padding inside, so her enthusiasm was at least… kindled. The presence of multiple smaller straps and buckles, compared to her existing vest’s two broad clips per side might bode well for adjustability, at least. So, she sighed and popped the last two clips on her navy blue torso protector and lifted it off, tossing it onto her sleeping pad.

Turning back to the new party attire she was apparently trying on she noticed Seb’s eyes were NOT on hers. For fuck’s sake, yet again. The heathered grey, fitted V-neck tee she wore as a base layer did not plunge low enough to reveal any décolletage without her specifically trying to, which she damned well wasn’t, but it was necessarily snug. Anything loose and baggy inevitably bunched up into inconvenient wrinkles and got uncomfortable under her armor.

She sighed and immediately regretted it, realizing the last thing she needed was to add the word "heaving" to the situation. "Ahem. You know I couldn’t have shot AND beat your ass, without them, right?" She placed her hands on her hips and smirked at Ronnie’s thwap to the back of Seb’s head. That seemed to knock his eyes loose and he recovered from his brief trance.

As Ronnie moved back to Bex and lowered the armor over her shoulders, Corporal Cleavage over there continued his explanation. "Right, sorry. I bow before their might. So, this heavy recon armor — yes, I know that sounds contradictory — is actually pretty rare. The layers of composite and ceramic are used in a lot of our… uh, their, armor, including the crazy heavy stuff used by shock troops. But the core here is layers of fiber impregnated with a non-Newtonian fluid. It’s some kind of polymer that sets harder the faster you hit it, but you could poke a finger into slowly."

Bex interjected. "Yeah, I’ve seen the MythBusters episode." She had to admit (silently) that even if it felt a little heavier overall, it was pretty well distributed. And, since it was previously adjusted for Seb’s deeper frame, the chest piece was canted forward at the top, thus tilting the bottom inwards, bringing the joint with the abdominal segment in closer to her lower ribs than the comparatively crude, and more importantly, flat, Kevlar and steel armor.

Seb pointed out all of the adjustment points, latches, and buckles to Rhonda who acted as tailor for her friend while he added a footnote. "The only downside to being so high tech is maintenance. That’s a lot of why those only see specialized field use." Bex bit back asking if that made her and Ronnie "special", she feared she had overdone the earlier flirting, and just let him continue. "In fact, if it takes a big hit, worse if there are two, the secret sauce inside can leak out. I’d bet that the LT outside is probably dripping blue goo. They color it for visibility." Well, great. If she ever bled anime colors or was misidentified as a wounded Smurf, she’d have a way to realize her gear was damaged. "Also, keep an eye out for armor lockers, there are detachable pauldrons that can protect your shoulder some while you’re firing from cover. Reduces mobility a little, so they’re frequently left off for some missions."

(Bex kept her "Like snatch n’ grabs…" retort to herself.)

Rhonda had finished the nip and tucks, so Bex arched her back, bent over, and moved her arms experimentally. It was a little long on her, so she’d need to adjust her belt line an inch or so, and would have to get used to different dive and roll angles. But otherwise… "I have to admit, this is pretty damned comfortable."

Seb nodded and gestured in her general direction. "The gel cushions on the inside are pretty conforming. They distribute impact well, and even absorb a fair amount of body heat. It can be nice in the cold — if you warm it up first! Or, also pretty nice in the sun, even with that paint job, at least until it saturates. Doesn’t do shit for thermal signature like they’d hoped, but even overpriced private military development contracts can’t buy happiness."

Rhonda snorted. "Truest thing you’ve said all night, you had me until "saturates", otherwise I’d have killed for some kind of magic heat absorbing gear in Kandahar."

"Fair enough, Gunnery Sergeant. Do you want to try Branner’s rig?" Seb tilted his head towards the other pile of gear.

"I don’t think so. My armor’s got much better all-around protection than hers does, and she can re-learn movement and weight distribution easier. Far less muscle memory to undo. Plus, his probably smells like asshat."

’Twas Bex’s turn to make a derisively amused noise. But, she was a little uneasy herself with how much the armor she was wearing smelled like vaguely like someone else. She might have to mask up a little more and, who knows, store it with a bunch of herbs or cedar shavings or something. She was also worried it was somehow akin to wearing a guy’s shirt. This did NOT mean they were dating, and she made a note to make sure he understood that at some point.

Rhonda prodded the conversation forward. "So… what about that arm computer?"

Seb nodded. "Ah, yes. Bring it over if you would?" Bex picked up an oversized wrist sleeve that had controls and a touch screen as he described it further. "Basic text-based comms, even video with a comms hub active and in good coverage. Note-taking/reference, mapping, and IFF."

"IFF?" Bex was intrigued. The first nibble of a plan started to coalesce in her head.

"Identify Friend or…"

"Foe. I know THAT." She cut him off, but managed not to roll her eyes. "Give us specifics."

"Right, sorry. Maybe I should just show you. May I?" He opened his hands, still cuffed together.

"Uh, yeahno. You’re doing great so far, but…" Bex wasn’t about to hand him a comms device yet.

Seb, to his credit, only looked the slightest bit deflated. "Right. Sorry. Ok, well, you see that flat portion? Fingerprint ID. Would you please…" He held out his right index finger, and Bex pressed the device up against the pad of it. The screen activated to reveal what looked to be a customized offshoot of an Android OS. "Pull up the map, please. Ok, so…"

Seb proceeded to demonstrate how other units in range would show as pins on the map, though this required unlocking Branner’s, and re-enabling the ping broadcasts that had been disabled for the ambush. Bex and Ronnie were initially skeptical about this, but eventually decided to accept his assurances that the peer-to-peer radius was pretty limited without significant relay and processing equipment typically only seen on larger deployments, given the device’s size and their position underground — and that Black Tusk already knew where the room was located.

Bex explored the UI of the device a little more… fancy. A position sensor and camera worked together to black out the screen when it detected the wearer’s forearm wasn’t lifted to their face. Good for sneaking about. Guess these guys missed the trope about sci-fi armor glowing with neon highlights and such. She also had him show her how to add her fingerprint, and tell her (actually, change) the PIN code that was supposed to prevent exactly what she was up to. Weakest point in any security is always the human element. She actually strapped the wrist tablet on, and started pacing, tapping her lower lip with her finger when she wasn’t prodding her new MP3 player (because it could do that too).

"Okay, Corporal…" she paused to look at the map again. "… Dumas…"

Oh dear lord. Next time he pissed her off she was so going to call him a dumbass. Well, maybe. Aiming at likely childhood bullying soft spots was a low blow. Not that she hadn’t already done one of THOSE to him. Plus, well. They still needed him.

"Tell us more about this FOB. And, yes, the 'princess' knows what a forward operating base is. I have learned of 'you people' and your love of acronyms." This was accompanied by chin pointing at both him and Rhonda. "Any back doors? A route they’d use to GTFO if SHTF? Maybe even a reactor vent the size of a womp rat at the end of a trench with insufficient CIWS? A button somewhere that will make them BOAKYAG?" She pronounced the last two in their common verbal forms too — "sea-whiz" and "bohk-yag".

Seb held up his cuffed hands in a placating gesture. "Okay, okay, message received. So yeah, there’s a guard presence on the ground and second floors — using the atrium as a kill box. Usually at least a sniper and machine gunner, and one of the guns-on-legs bots I told you about earlier. They’re no tanks or anything, massed small arms can still take them down, but they’re bullet sponges."

"So, not using door number one. Check." Bex counted off one finger, and Ronnie chimed in.

"Underground access?"

"Through the tunnels, how we got here. Pull up the map again and look at the latest in 'Recent Routes'."

Bex poked, swiped, and scrolled. A solid line traced back through the partially 3d (and elsewhere 2d, probably from public records) map of this tunnel system. She shook her head, disbelieving how easy this was getting. She also couldn’t suppress something between a chuckle and an unhinged giggle. When Rhonda looked over, clearly wanting in on the joke, she did it again. "I’m sorry… I just… am amazed and highly entertained by how much the success of this outing is being influenced by my boobs." She broke into a longer fit of what was unquestionably paralytic giggling as she waved her hand in the general direction of her torso. "They’re not even that glorious! Jeez." She sniffed and wiped her eyes trying to normalize her breathing.

Rhonda didn’t think she deserved the opportunity. "I mean, you’re certainly entitled to your opinion, it’s your body after all. I can’t force you to be right." Bex managed to restrain her reaction to a quivering lower lip and nostrils as she fought not to go back off the rails.

Seb rolled his eyes. "Uhm, I’m right here!"

The levy holding back Bex’s laughter started to undercut, eroding from below. "Gunny, I don’t think men like it when we talk about them in the third person. Do you?"

Ronnie replied dryly, with slight emphasis on the last word. "No, I don’t think they do, 'Becca'." That right there did it. All of the productive floodplains of rational thought and logic were overrun as the first trickle to escape washed away even more resistance, progressively faster and faster. Even Rhonda let out a few genuine laughs, though the ratio of "at Bex" and "with Bex" was debatable.

It took a full minute to recover while Seb groaned into his involuntarily double-handed facepalm, and Bex discovered how much further she could double over laughing in the more flexible armor. Eventually, she was able to muster, between sniffles, an apology. "Heh. I’m sorry. We’re… mature and stuff… right. You were saying. Door number 2?"

Seb managed a passable rendition of a teacher’s "are you quite thoroughly done?" face, and continued. Or tried to. He really just should have, it would have been more productive. Instead… "You know, I can just leave…"

Bex emergency repairs threatened to collapse spectacularly. "No, you can’t. I’ll just shoot you!"

Fortunately, Ronnie’s tough-love-tap to her shoulder compacted the temporary earthworks and solidified them. Bex just pressed her lips together desperately while Ronnie continued. "Defenses underground?"

"Infra-red tripwires — nothing so violent as your surprises, just alarms — at least two guards, an emplaced minigun…." Rhonda winced. ".. and one of those bots if it’s not on patrol."

Bex kept her mouth shut, held up two fingers, and shook her head. She followed with three, and a questioning look.

"The last option is a nonfunctional elevator shaft in a partially burnt out building across the street. It’s connected to a service passage in the bottom of the shaft pit, but that has IR beam alarms and a very heavy security door — we’re talking cutting torch time — that can only be opened from the inside after they slagged the exterior handles and such. Might be good for exfil, but I don’t think you’re getting in that way either. Even as an exit, you’d need to pre-position ropes in the elevator ahead of time. And, the room inside of the door, even though it’s just storage, has line of sight to both the room your people are in and the armory, so there are two guards who post up in it."

He sighed. "I just don’t see a way in that isn’t going to get all kinds of messy. There’s only two of you, and there are some decent people on duty there, even if you’ve now got me thinking that the goals of the organization at large are… too secretive, they’re not all dicks like Branner. They don’t deserve to get hurt, especially not for a questionable cause."

His solemnity had cleared Bex’s head, and she was tapping her lip again. WWSTD? Ok, no, that was an unfortunate acronym. But, really, what would Sun Tzu do? Also, he said those bits about the lockup and armory being close together like they were BAD things.

She continued oscillating across the room while Ronnie inquired about the basement’s layout and so forth. Bex paused by them once or twice to absorb information and then continue on her way. Then it hit her. It wasn’t a reactor exhaust port. It was a shield control bunker! It was fucking Troy.

**

She’d needed Ronnie’s vastly superior experience with tactical doctrine, and Seb to fill in a few more details — did Black Tusk use their comms in voice-activated or push-to-talk modes? (Only PTT "on base" for security, he told them. Individual teams might go to VOX in "kinetic" situations.) What kind of locks did the doors have? (Either the existing latchware, or chains and padlocks with the occasional bicycle-style U-lock.) But soon, her nibble of a plan had been upgraded to an appetizer, and not long after that, a humble but hearty home-cooked single course meal (not comprised of ramen or cereal).

They checked Branner’s bandages and gave him a top-off dose of Ketamine. Rhonda decided to set up a slow IV drip too, to keep him hydrated and unconscious. She did that after dragging him to a water/bloodstain proof foam sleeping roll and zip-tying a few of his joints to nearby pipework.

After confirming Seb was right-handed through observation, they removed the cuffs from his left wrist, and attached his right to a long run of horizontal pipe with a drain at one end, and a plastic chair, water bottle, and his part of the plan at the other.

They left Bex’s bolt-action takedown rifle and the two Black Tusk issue carbines there, but removed the bolt from her rifle and the firing pins from theirs, stowing them in their packs. Those, in turn, were emptied of "quality of life" items - Bex ate her candy bar because a bunch of mercs sure weren’t going to get it — and refilled with a purely tactical, lighter loadout. Ronnie helped Bex transfer pouches from her old equipment vest to the loops and velcro attachment points designed into her newly obtained armor, including some top-offs from the ammunition the men were carrying.

Before they left, Bex found that one of the tasers on the lieutenant’s body looked pretty intact — just a crack in the plastic frame, and it still made the requisite menacing capacitor whine and lit the Ready LED when she checked it. Rhonda watched vigilantly as she approached Seb and pressed it into his hand — muzzle first, with the dart cartridge and battery separated, she was trusting, but not a moron!

She paused for a heartbeat, accepting for the moment that his fingers were touching hers, and looked him steadily in the eyes. "Look… I know I’ve been a little crazy on you so far. But this is really important. Please don’t fuck us over on this. If it goes well… I can put in a good word for you somewhere. Not necessarily with us, but maybe a passing convoy or something, you know? We have to get those kids back, and you can make it work… or you could get Ronnie and me killed."

He met her gaze, not looking away, not checking her out this time, and simply replied, "This is the first obviously useful thing I’ve been able to do for a while. I’m in."

She nodded and backed away to where she’d propped her M4 against the wall. "Thanks, then."

Seb looked to Rhonda, and she said, in a voice that clearly accepted no reality other than his complete support, "Don’t fuck up, soldier."

He made his right hand flat and twitched it upwards towards his head where it was restrained, as if starting a salute.

"Hooah. Good hunting, Gunnery Sergeant."

**

As he watched them leave, Seb knew Becca had been working him to get what she wanted — and that she seemed to scare herself a few times doing it. But, she’d been right. He was pretty confident she hadn’t lied to him. Maybe left a few things out, but hey, operational security. He was still a lot of unknowns. She was trying to do a good thing. At least the guys from the old squad, before everything… wherever they were, if they were mocking him for being a dipshit for a pretty girl yet again, he couldn’t hear it.

And then there was the enigmatic unnamed Gunnery Sergeant — not that decorum demanded he know her as anything but that. She’d treated him with caution, but tentative respect. Contingent on clear expectations continuing to be met. No fucking way he was going to let her down.

Even if it weren’t for his healthy fear of senior NCO’s, regardless of service branch.

**

"Ronnie, what the hell is with me and the redemption cases gravitating towards me?"

Bex’s spontaneous request for introspective assistance came as they walked along parallel cement walkways on either side of a brick lined, round walled tunnel. A shallow trench ran down the middle, full of muck and slow moving water, and they occasionally had to step over waist-high panels of sheet metal protruding from the walls. What were those even for? Slowing the flow of a flash-flood maybe…

"Well, believe it or not, you have a certain grace about you…" Rhonda’s answer made her pause in bewilderment, then hasten to catch up.

"Huh? What’s that supposed to mean?" She was genuinely perplexed as she fell back into step opposite Ronnie, not defiant.

"It means you care, cookie. There was precious little enough of that in the world before, and I worry the percentages are even lower now. Sure, constrained resources and civic breakdown encourages extreme tribalism, but even that has an element of caring for one’s own. Worse, a lot of people like you probably died trying to help others — running towards trouble, like the recruiting ad the Marines ran several years ago. They didn’t… nobody knew it was an attack at first and even once they suspected, they all ran downrange into the shit because they saw people who needed help. As happens too much in times like that though, many rescuers became casualties too. You were still a kid back in 2001, but…"

Bex sighed. "Yeah. But I remember. Everything at school just… stopped… and the TV…"

Ronnie nodded and left the rest of her sentence unsaid. "I don’t think Jaime was the only one getting saved in your relationship, kid. You remember what you told me you said to him as you bugged out, right? About you hoping everyone turned out ok?" She only paused long enough to see Bex nod. "You coulda been one of the many we lost early. I think your man did the rest of us a service, keeping you safe for later. Where you could do stuff like this. You couldn’t have stopped what was happening back then. But here you are walking through this shithole to save a couple of scared kids."

"Hey, they’re not that much younger than me, you know… but… " Bex walked silently for a little. "If you’re saying I’m part of the universe’s contingency plan…" Her voice trailed off again, but this time she shook her head with a wry grin.

Ronnie chuckled. "Do you know how many times in history the supposed A-team has had their collective ass saved by the scrappy leftover reserves or the local resistance fighters? Sometimes greatness is revealed by adversity."

Whatever her reply was about to be, Bex forgot it when her first few words were drowned out by a terribly loud rolling boom that reverberated down the tunnel’s irregular acoustics. She jumped, and when she’d noticed Ronnie’s reaction was to bring her SAW from a low ready to her shoulder, she recovered enough sense to pivot and aim her M4 to their rear.

They were almost back to the manhole they’d come down from the restaurant alley, but they remained still for several seconds, straining their eyes and ears for new data. When they started forward again, Bex let out a quiet "What the shit… I couldn’t even tell which way that came from," and saw Ronnie nod in her peripheral vision.

They figured it out at about the same time, when Bex noticed more water in the trench and Rhonda tilted her head and turned one earmuff (and its integrated microphone) closer to their destination. The manhole was just ahead of them now, but was in the shadow of buildings, with no distinct beam of light radiating down. Bex flicked her flashlight across it and illuminated the column of rain falling through.

Well, that just figured. The only waterproof gear she was wearing were her mid-height hiking boots.

**

Climbing a ladder through an enclosing hole was even more of a tactical nightmare than the long narrow tunnel. All the first climber’s backup could do is cover the hole until their partner obscured it, and then hope any problems would allow for a hasty retreat back down the ladder. It was even riskier for the last climber — anyone ahead of them could only secure the top area, and keep an eye on their partner from above, until their line of fire was again obstructed, and hope their buddy could out-climb any trouble from below — the same problem as the first half, but from above, with the equation skewed by gravity.

Rhonda hated it either way, but conceded to Bex’s point about having a lighter combat load with just her M4. Bex, for her part, compared her anxious scamper following Ronnie up the ladder to hurrying out of a dark room after turning out the light when she was a kid. They took some consolation in the rain’s probable deterrence of any hostiles, and hastened to the mouth of an inset receiving dock to sort themselves out.

Bex had mentally debated before their ascent about which way she should wear her cap — with the bill protecting her face and preserving her vision, or reversed, sheltering her neck. She’d decided that looking up as she climbed was going to be hard enough without rain in her eyes and on her clear safety lenses, and left it on facing forwards. That was probably still the right decision at the time, but that didn’t stop her from regretting it when the first rivulet of cold and wet ran down the back of her neck, making her gasp, squirm, and shiver as it went straight down her spine. The space behind her shoulder blades created a funnel and tented her armor, shirt, and top edge of her compression bra beneath it all. The lower elastic band halted the stream, causing it to wick into both layers of fabric in a radiating, clammy, distinctly unpleasant circle, and she decided any blurring or blinking of her vision was less impactful to her aim than all that dancing about.

Once they were under shelter, she stuffed a dry corner of Ronnie’s shemagh neck scarf as far as she could down her back, and again resolved to find a bandana somewhere. The now damp corner of the shemagh didn’t faze Ronnie, because when Bex handed it back apologetically, she started arranging it as a rain fly for her own neckline.

While reversing her cap, Bex paused to tease out the rearmost tattered section of her braid into a low loose ponytail. But, as she was snugging the damp cap back onto her only slightly less soggy hair, they heard whining and a hesitant growl from deeper in the dock. Her eyes lit up and she waved Ronnie back a bit as she knelt and peered into the gloomy corners and spotted the same dog from earlier. Her tone shifted to one Rhonda figured she’d never even used with Jaime — or at least chose to believe so, since she wanted to continue respecting Bex — as the younger woman tried to lure the dog over.

"Oh, hi again, puppy! We won’t hurt you… C’mere! Hi sweetie! No fun being in all this rain, huh? Me neither. Come here, baby!" Bex fished a precious bag of jerky from her left thigh pocket that she totally hadn’t kept with her just for this purpose when shedding unnecessary weight a bit ago. She waved a piece and baby-talked at the dog a little more, which earned her a tentative wag, but the dog’s tail stayed low, and it didn’t approach.

She knew better than to try forcing matters while they had the dog accidentally cornered, so she tossed a few pieces of jerky halfway to the dog and turned back to Ronnie, who diligently said nothing while she poked at the map on one of the pilfered wrist tablets.

Their route overland was unsurprisingly soggy, and disappointingly non-residential. Bex had hoped to snoop around for some rain gear. This recon armor was made for sneaking around, probably in all kinds of dingy conditions, right? A roguish hood would have not only added to its stealthy chic, but also made her a hell of a lot more comfortable. At least Seb had been right, even as damp as she was, her fingers stayed steady and her core temperature didn’t seem to be suffering as much as she’d expected in the rain.

This was a proper storm overhead, around them, and on them. The sky continued to flash and boom, and she imagined Ronnie’s headphones were probably cutting out the thunder regularly.

Everyone else, their business savory or otherwise, apparently found it non-pressing enough to take the sane option and stay indoors. At least, as far as they could tell. A few times the gray sheets of rain were so overwhelming someone could have been skulking along the other side of the street, and neither group would have noticed the other. Eventually Bex reached peak saturation — essentially, her default state was "soaking wet", and any more water just kept her from drying out at all. They peeked at the tablet maps periodically — they themselves were in "silent running", so they weren’t so reckless to assume no pings meant no badguys — but any early warning would be a plus.

If nothing else, this rain probably meant no recon drones. Probably.

**

The skeletal partial remnants of their destination building looked appropriately post-apocalyptic as they approached it through a warren of alleys. They were just around the corner from the Black Tusk outpost and were watching their surroundings vigilantly. They’d contemplated checking in with Broadway or trying to coordinate with another team along the way, but decided that even if their comms were encrypted with new keys, even a fix with a radio direction finder (a real one, not Sam’s lesson on improvising one) was too big of a risk.

Bex appreciated the way the weather seemed to keep the smoke smell down, but soon discovered ash transmogrified into the slimiest of black and grey muds when it got wet. Ronnie advised it would harden like concrete afterwards, too. Great. So evidence of her landing on a knee when she slipped and almost fell on her ass would be preserved for a long time.

At least her boots would soon be the same color scheme as her new armor. That gave her an idea, and she clicked her tongue to get Ronnie’s attention and gestured towards the ash on a mangled metal bookshelf that she hoped might have been from a stack of paperwork or books, and not too toxic. Then, she used two fingers to mimic painting it on her cheeks. Ronnie replied with a thoughtful head tilt but followed with crying and coughing motions. Bex looked back at the ash and noticed minuscule sparkling and glittering in the ash, and readjusted the fit of her facemask. Breathe less crap; look like a badass ninja operator and fake it 'til you make it… take your pick.

She was grateful the building’s remaining concrete and steel seemed solid, and was relieved when they reached intact carpeting. The thin, rough industrial grade texture made her feel much better about potentially slipping again on her ash-clogged boot soles. Talk about rolling a 1 during a stealth level!

Making their way deeper into the dark ruins was made harder by the flashes of lightning, not easier. The moments of brightness let them see a brief glimpse of the corridors, but then they were stuck, waiting for their eyes to readjust again. It did, however, provide them with excellent sound cover when the reached the elevator and Rhonda readied a small crowbar from Bex’s pack. She counted off one flash, delay, and boom, then poised the crowbar to strike. Just as the next thunderclap rolled through, she plunged the tool forward between the doors.

Bex continued to watch their flanks while Ronnie retrieved two lengths of rope, also from her pack since that was easier for Ronnie to access than her own. Ronnie knocked away some dangling acoustical tile ceiling panels, looped the ropes around a beam this exposed, and threw the loose ends down the elevator shaft. Then, they swapped positions.

Bex pulled another coil of rope from Ronnie’s pack, looped it at its midpoint around the same beam, walked the two equal halves to the elevator, and tied a carabiner into each end just shy of the pitch black doorway. She retrieved two climbing harnesses and a pair of powered ascenders — those were threaded onto the full-length ropes, and then they took turns stepping and cinching into the harnesses.

Per Ronnie, this next part was going to be high risk, high reward, so speed, aggression, and subterfuge became priorities. Thus, they both clipped into their ascenders, made a small concession from stealth to safety in cracking two chem light glowsticks (woo, party time!), and stuffed one each into their bootlaces so they could see the edges of the shaft and the tracks and cables obstructing their descent, and made their way down simultaneously.

Once they were about halfway, Bex could see the elevator car was not below them. First off, this was convenient because it meant they didn’t have to get through its access panels, top and bottom, along their way. On the other hand, that meant it was perched somewhere above them. That realization didn’t help her raging adrenaline at all… if she’d planned this outpost’s defenses, she’d have blown the brakes and cables to block the shaft. Maybe they couldn’t get up to it? She stole an upward glance and didn’t see any menacing red LEDs glowing back at her from the darkness — Sam would have waited for someone to sneak in and THEN dropped the elevator.

She buried that chilling thought as her toes approached bottom, where they tossed the chem lights to shadowy corners. Ronnie pulled out the deceased Black Tusk lieutenant’s "snap gun" automated lock pick and lifted it towards the service door… and stopped with a quiet "Huh."

Whoever designed this shaft decided they needed to keep people out of it, but let them exit it in a rush. They took a little time to check the door’s "panic bar" door handle for traps, and then pushed on it as quietly as they could — those things tended to be a little clattery. Built for idiotproofing, not silent operation.

From their maps, they knew the door opened into the end of a hallway, on a side wall such that the only way to go would be to their right. Bex held her gun up to the fractionally open door, and could faintly see the opposite wall. Otherwise, the hall was silent and black.

As long as it stayed that way she’d just keep her thumb on the switch for her light, but not activate it, while Ronnie added a couple of small loops and knots to the dangling ropes below the ascenders they’d unclipped from.

That done, Ronnie patted Bex’s shoulder, and they moved fluidly into the corridor. It was mostly exposed cinder blocks with thick, dull paint over them. Once they switched on their weapon lights to advance, Bex could tell it was an industrial battleship gray — and that the floor coating of it had been mixed with granules of sand as a nonslip treatment. Maybe that was a good omen.

A ladder climbed the wall in front of them, and Bex briefly tilted her light and aim up to make sure the hatch at the top was closed. Then they made the ninety degree left turn, checked that a small maintenance office / shop was empty, and that another set of steel double doors was secure. Someone — probably Black Tusk — had threaded a cheap bicycle lock through the door handles.

Bex had an idea and stopped Rhonda, making a slashing motion towards the chain and lock with her hand. Ronnie looked at her quizzically for a moment — this was off book. Bex winked, and Ronnie shrugged back at her and pulled the pair of small bolt cutters from Bex’s pack and snipped the lock in twain. Bex carefully unthreaded the pieces and laid them on the floor, and then motioned forward.

They’d been careful to watch for cameras, tripwires, etc. Seb had assured them there weren’t any more than the handful of IR beams in the final stretch of hallway, and it seemed he was right as they peeked around the last corner, turning ninety degrees to their right.

Bex was low and tight to the corner, knowing Ronnie and her big gun were standing a step behind and left. She tried to calm her nerves, taking a deep breath and ignoring her cottony mouth. Ronnie’s boot tapping hers twice was a welcome reassurance, and she tried to breathe in rhythm with her. This was the scary as shit part.

Seb had actually been the one to suggest an alternative to letting him broadcast on a Black Tusk channel. Ronnie locked a spare handset from the storage shelves to a specific channel with a six digit pin, while Bex made jokes about turning on the parental controls for him as she tuned one of her presets to match that frequency. That let her and Seb talk directly in a one-off random channel and encryption seed, hopefully only on their three radios. Then, Ronnie added Branner’s radio to her gear. If they needed Seb to talk on a Black Tusk channel, they could hold it up to Bex’s. Quality would definitely suffer, but the ladies would have control of the broadcast.

There was still some risk he both wanted to betray them AND knew a way to reset the lock on the handset… but that scheme was as much of a guarantee the three of them could come up with. (They’d stashed the other spare radios in a nook down the tunnel.)

Bex keyed up their private channel and quietly asked, "Hey buddy. You ready?"

There was a brief delay as he probably picked up the radio. "Yeah, I’m good to go."

"Copy, stand by."

Ronnie shook her head and quietly whispered, "That’s my line. Army brat." Then, she nodded to Bex, and they both switched on the transponders on their commandeered tablets, along with the lieutenant’s in the "mission critical items" thigh pocket with the jerky. Bex switched the channel with Seb to VOX, unplugged her earpiece, and cranked the volume on her radio to its surprising maximum.

They moved down the hallway at a stuttering, erratic pace intentionally tripping the IR beams. That started several seconds of shrill beeping, and thus cursing, behind the doors ahead. Just as they reached the door, Bex noticed a third map blip on the other side of the door and cursed quietly. They’d have to roll with it. She quietly said into the radio, "Knock knock, you’re on…" just before pounding on the door with her fist. Immediately, she stepped closer to Ronnie and juggled the P90 to hang from her left shoulder, chambered and hot.

To her relief and gratitude, Seb leapt right into his part. "Hey! Open up! It’s Dumas and Branner, the LT’s injured!"

A muffled voice on the other side of the door replied, also coming through the radio. "What the fuck? Why are you coming this way?" Perfect, it’s like they were reading a copy of the same script.

"They jumped us, man! The two we saw went inside but it was a trap! Fucking AP mines, and they had flankers down the tunnel! They were chasing us on the way back, so we had to ditch them and come in this way!" Sounds of debating voices came through the door, and Bex swore to herself again. Just look at the map dots. Don’t ask to talk to Branner, nobody likes him. She felt herself starting to stress-sweat and swallowed hard.

Seb’s voice actually made her jump when he kept up the pressure. "Come on man, the fuck? The LT’s unconscious and bleeding out! Let us in!"

Chains rattled beyond the door and Bex’s adrenaline spiked even further as she clipped the radio to a webbing loop and readied the P90 in her left hand to mirror the slightly cumbersome M4 in her right.

Both doors swung open towards them. The troopers inside were probably expecting their comrades beyond, but instead only saw three bright tactical lights on full blast like angry stars, Rhonda’s strobing dizzyingly, and heard a young woman’s voice in grim monotone. "You move, you die."

**

She’d seen that line in a Jason Bourne movie one time, and hoped it sounded sufficiently badass. None of them even had weapons readied. The two Caucasian, headshaven mercs likely on guard duty had carbines like Seb and Branner. The one the right had his slung behind him, and the other had left his leaning against the wall back by his chair. They both wore pretty conventional uniforms and medium armor in company colors.

The vaguely ethnic olive-skinned man seated at the table in the middle of the room was in lighter armor, but didn’t look like an officer. Tech maybe? For a moment, he glanced at the SMG on the table in front of him, like he thought he might have a chance. Bex dissuaded him by wiggling both guns, aimed center mass at him and the guard on the right. "Suppressors all around. Nobody will hear. Last warning."

Everyone slowly raised their hands, the outer two backing into the room as the women advanced. Bex hoped she was managing to hold her M4 steadily enough with only the one hand on the pistol grip pulling it against her shoulder, she could feel her bicep burning and forearm starting to ache. Ronnie gestured with the big gun the guy on the left was staring down the business end of. "I’m sure you can guess next steps. Floor. Hands. Head. Now."

When he complied, Bex continued covering the others while Rhonda zip tied and duct taped him and then hauled him bodily into the hallway, adding additional ties once he was down again. They repeated the process twice more, frisking the men and removing PDAs as they went, and disabled their own location broadcasts.

Bex returned her radio to safe volume levels, reconnected her earpiece, and thanked Seb. "Hey. You did good. We’re in."

"Copy, good luck. Stay safe."

After the guards and their gear were secured, Bex advanced halfway down the hallway to provide cover while Ronnie drew the bolt cutters again and lopped the padlock off of the door to the right, with BRIG written in wide black marker across the door. Then Bex crouch-walked back two steps to help cover the room as the door swung open, then focused back on the hallway. She could hear gasps of surprise, more clinks of the bolt cutter, and rustles of movement.

Ronnie returned to view trailed by the two wayward goslings, only slightly worse for wear, and went to work doing what NCO’s do. "Both of you, there are guns in that room behind us. Chamber up, check safeties, and then hole up in the corners nearest the hallway." Patrick and Christine rapidly did as they were told. They didn’t recognize Bex for a moment, until she pulled her mask down and winked at them over her shoulder.

When she’d returned her attention to the hallway, she sensed Ronnie stack up behind her and heard her say, "So…"

"Take their stuff?"

"Oh fuck yes."

They popped the lock and cleared the armory across the hall from the brig, then motioned the "kids" forward. As she watched the hallway from the door, it took Bex a second to remember they weren’t that much younger than her, as she’d protested to Ronnie earlier. She supposed that a year or two and a little post traumatic stress makes a big difference in the early to mid twenties.

When the other two had repositioned, Bex heard Ronnie give Pat a flashbang and a smoke grenade and tell him that if anyone came down the hall, to throw the flashbang all the way to the end, and the smoke grenade halfway, and meanwhile relieve Bex.

She gave him a half smile and a pat (heh…) on his back when he appeared by her shoulder and she swapped places with him. That gave her a good look at the armory for the first time.

It was Christmas morning, and someone had been very, very good.

**

Ronnie laid their two packs, plus two more "liberated" from the room, on top of the back-to-back metal shelves whose tops formed a table surface in the center of the armory.

A quick scan of the room showed Bex vertical weapon racks on the opposite and left walls, above more waist high shelves, and a mix of full height shelves and cabinets to the right. There were only at most a half dozen or so of any given gun type, which made sense for an outpost of this size. Several slots were empty near more examples of the carbines that seemed to be standard issue. Mixed cases, crates, and cans filled most of the visible shelving.

She saw Ronnie already setting aside ANOTHER light machine gun next to hers… did she plan to dual wield? One just for the weekends? Ronnie also put a large drag bag that could be team-carried via handles at each end onto the table, and started placing ammunition cans for various calibers into it two at a time.

The first thing to catch Bex’s eye was a slightly fancier case marked ACC’Y/MAINT KIT: ARMOR, RECON, HVY. Yeah, that was going right into Santa’s bag, she didn’t even need to peek.

Christine had set down her "boring" carbine and brought down a shotgun from the wall, describing how she had an affinity for them from family experiences. Bex didn’t know as much about shotguns, but it didn’t look to have a pump, so probably a semiautomatic, with a red dot sight and weapon light already mounted. Chris had already begun sliding shells into it from a box below when Ronnie glanced over and told her to take a second one, nodding to the packs.

Looking back at Ronnie, Bex saw her strapping on a thigh holster and sliding in what looked to be a very tactical’ed-out descendant of a 1911, which Bex recognized from her dad’s old movies and her initial shopping trips. As she finished that, Ronnie gestured encouragingly towards two long, chunky black plastic cases that were suspiciously rifle-sized.

She watched Bex open the first one, and they both made approving noises. It was… some sort of bullpup, still one she’d seen as a prop in sci-fi shows, but bigger than Ronnie’s P90. It had a weapon light very similar to Bex’s, but the presence of a yellow warning sticker and a small dark hole in the light’s reflector told her it also had an integrated laser like her pistol. She recognized the tubular optic sight as similar in function to her M4’s from seeing it on other people’s rifles, and it had a fold-aside magnifier tube behind it. Bex looked questioningly at Ronnie for more information.

"That’s an Israeli 'Tavor'. Same caliber and magazines as your M4, itty bitty living space. Nice for urban use, for obvious reasons."

Bex picked it up experimentally and pivoted and tilted a little. It felt like slipping into an impossibly perfectly fitting athletic shoe. When she looked at the chubby magazines that were included in the gun case, she found they were already loaded, and labeled with 60 round capacities. More dakka, indeed.

She pulled out one of the more vanilla infantry armor / load carrier vests hanging in an open cabinet, transferred her "regular sized" magazines to it, and set it and her M4 down next to Patrick, with a meaningful toe nudge. Returning to the case, she shoved two of the high capacity mags into her pouches, loaded and chambered the Tavor with the third, checked the light and sight, and connected it to her sling that had been carrying the M4.

Glancing around, she spotted Ronnie stuffing the remaining space in the packs and large bag with a deliberately chosen collection of scopes, goggles, magazines (30 rounds is SO ten minutes ago…), small arms, and specialty ammunition. Since all that seemed under control and Chris appeared to have found herself some sort of heavy CQB vest with many, many bandolier loops, Bex returned to the second long black case. She clicked the latches, opened the lid, and… oh. Oh-hohoho, my. She felt like the contents should be shining a mythic glow past the open lid, illuminating her gleeful face and reflecting from her now very avaricious eyes. Bring it, Smaug.

In the months she’d known her, Rhonda had never heard Rebecca Marie Clinton "coo", that just wasn’t something she did. But, when she looked over from wondering what, exactly, Black Tusk had that needed ammo cans labeled 25MM AC HE, it was because her (little) sister in arms had let out an open mouthed, full breathed gasp, and was eyeing something in that case with near childlike wonderment plastered on her face. And, the sounds she was making could absolutely, unequivocally, only be described as "cooing".

If Bex had known Ronnie’s thoughts she would have greatly preferred words like "murmuring lovingly." She was delicately brushing her fingertips across the features of the dark beauty she’d found, like it was made of precious crystal, taking in familiar and exotic features alike. It was architecturally similar to her M4, just so much… better. It was like comparing a tubby black tomcat to the grace of a stalking panther. She found herself whispering breathily over it… "Oh, hello beautiful… what on Earth are you? You’re perfect. We are definitely going to need a name for you." Her eyes were lighting on the shiny trigger, sculpted rubber pistol grip.. long predatory barrel.. clearly high-end scope, longer and with a much larger front lens than her bolt-action, and even a little micro red dot sight like the one on Ronnie’s P90 nestled on top of the main optic.

Someone had already mounted a bipod to the long, almost ornately milled handguard wrapped perfectly around the barrel and shrouding it until just before the suppressor, and the shoulder stock looked to have adjustments for overall length and the height of the separate cheek rest. It even had a small extendable foot at the bottom of the padded buttplate that made it look like the rifle might be able to perch in place on the bipod and that foot.

She noticed Ronnie at her side (like she always seemed to be these days, aww) and asked her, only turning partially away from her new find, "What is she?"

Ronnie flicked her eyes over many of the same features, and lifted it briefly to study the other side. (HISSS, IT TOUCHES THE PRECIOUSSS….)

"This, honey, is what happens when you build a rifle from the ground up to be a specialist instead of a generalist. I see a few different brands of parts, but that doesn’t make this a mongrel. Someone who knew what they were doing built this with intent, picking and choosing very specific components. Usually something like this is put together… well, was put together, around bigger rounds like a 7.62 or even more exotic loads, but it seems they might have had similar thoughts to us about ammo availability. It’s 5.56 too, like your M4 and Tavor, so you’ll be able to keep it well supplied."

It wasn’t lost on Bex that Ronnie hadn’t mentioned That Other Rifle, and she smiled a little more for it.

Ronnie continued briefly. "I guess someone liked the idea of the Mk 12 SPR and decided they could go a step further." She waved Bex’s confusion away. "Doesn’t matter. Let’s grab the rest of this shit and bounce."

"I can finally…" Bex was so happy she bobbed on the balls of her feet and hugged Ronnie’s arm. "I think her name is Felicia. Mama LIKE."

Bex turned to attach her new pal to her pack and found another rifle already strapped in to one side. Boxier, kinda like the one from Aliens. "Ronnie?"

"For later, to grow into if we ever get an ammo source. It’s a Mk 17, or SCAR H." That didn’t mean a lot to Bex, and Ronnie could tell. "7.62 round. Uh…" Ronnie gestured towards the rifle in Bex’s hand and then to the one on the pack. "Black Widow, Thor. Does that help?"

"Uh, a good enough TL;DR for now, I suppose. Comparing this baby to Black Widow is just going to make me like it more, though." Bex finished with her pack, and turned to make sure the "kids" were rigged decently. She noticed Ronnie had already made sure each pack had two weapons, and a good load of ammo, valuable gadgets, C4 bricks (!!!), and medkits. They were going to be traveling heavy, but could probably stash stuff or arrange for a rendezvous once clear.

Oh, the C4 reminded her. "Should we get something for Sammie?"

Ronnie passed her a soft-sided bag about the size of a guitar case without the neck. "Already on it."

Bex opened her mouth to inquire when they heard a staticky voice outside from the radios they’d removed from their captives. "… status of… Branner… debrief... respond."  
Bex glanced at the younger pair to check on them and announced, "That’s our cue, ladies and gent."

Ronnie nodded. "Yup. Pat, Chris, grab an end of the big bag and leg it all the way to the end of the hallway. Elevator shaft, NOT stairs! We’ll cover."

Everyone started moving, Bex aiming her new Tavor deeper into the base as she backed down the middle of the hallway, using her peripheral vision to keep in a straight line. She’d gotten about 5 steps when a loud banging erupted behind her. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw one of the hogtied guards stomping his feet against one of the big steel doors. He got several resounding slams in before Chris smashed him in the face with the butt of her shotgun en passant. (Attagirl!)

Damage done, though. Bex already had a smoke grenade in hand and was pulling the pin when she heard commotion at the far end of the hallway. She chucked it downrange and got ready to repeat the process with a flashbang. Continuing to back up the corridor, she heard Ronnie behind her to the right, and another crackle of traffic from the radios on the ground — but not their commandeered one. Of course. A dedicated "guard" channel that wasn’t on radios taken offsite. Someone in the room must have checked in before opening the doors.

She heard scuffles, then coughing, and let the handle pop off her grenade, waited for a one-one thousand, and hurled it, squinting and scampering for the exit doorway where Ronnie had posted up while she warned her comrades, "Flash out!" She’d remembered quite clearly the image of Seb and Brenner’s stun grenades detonating midair before they’d clattered to the ground and decided she could "cook" a grenade too. (Ronnie would later lecture her to never try it with a "real" frag grenade, and that even doing it with a flashbang risked serious injury.)

In the moment, she was satisfied to hear multiple cries of dismay after it went off. But, it was followed by a replying crackle of gunfire. She and Ronnie both popped off a few short bursts of suppression fire into the smoke, but as she cleared the doorway and started to approach the first corner, the ziptied combat tech from earlier swept his feet out and she stumbled over them.

She turned as she fell, landing in an abrupt sit, and lashed out a foot at his face. Ronnie must have taken offense too, because a short row of sparks, blood, and then more sparks stitched across him. Bex clambered upright, putting another blind burst into the smoke. Something tugged at the soft case with contents unknown for Sam, and then she felt a burning slash across her left shoulder. She cried out, and then swore. "Mother. Fucker!" Then, as a quieter afterthought for Ronnie, "I’m good!"

Both women clearly felt their return fire was an insufficient deterrent, dealing with it in different ways, though both were consistent with a maxim Ronnie had shared with her — "when the going gets tough, the tough go cyclic." Bex flicked her fire selector from semi to auto, and ripped out three seven-to-ten round volleys. She definitely did get a sense of visceral satisfaction from the ability to fire longer barrages with the new gun. Ronnie must have removed the suppressor from her SAW, because now the rain of brass was inaudible over its loud angry drumbeat, and Bex had to turn her face away from the star-shaped flame dancing at its muzzle, as Ronnie unleashed somewhere in the vicinity of a third of her 100 round ammo bag and then tossed her smoke grenade just past the door, barking "Leapfrog!" at Bex.

She knew this meant to switch from backing away to taking turns sprinting and covering, so Bex obediently turned, bumped one of the double doors they’d unlocked earlier open, and snapped/threw her last two chem lights towards the first landing of the stairs therein. Hopefully that would throw the hounds off the chase a bit. Then, she hauled ass to the next corner, and called out, "Go!"

Ronnie let loose another roaring volley and then double-timed it to and around Bex’s corner. She stood with her back to the wall behind Bex, fished her own flashbang out with her offhand, and nudged Bex’s boot with hers. Bex scampered low and around Ronnie to the elevator shaft where Chris and Pat waited anxiously. "Clip the middle handles on the big bag onto that ascender. When I get to the top, put your foot into those loops like a stirrup and hold on. On your way up, use your free foot to "hop" along the wall so you don’t drag on it. Clear?"

Both nodded. "Yup."

"Crystal."

Bex returned the nod, hooked the carabiner on one ascender through her harness, grabbed the other ascender, and held the "up" button on both. It took about ten seconds to clear the top, where she checked the room, then disconnected both ascenders. Unthreading them from the two long lines, she clipped their carabiners into the short lines instead, and threaded the long ropes back through them in the opposite direction. Leaning out to get line of sight on the kids, she held the "up" buttons again. This time, the ascenders-turned-winches pulled their anchor lines taught and started reeling in the ropes in the shaft.

She could really feel the grazing hit across her upper arm now, and the blood dripping from her elbow below it, but ground her teeth and willed herself to focus through it, especially when she flinched at the sound of a flashbang. No gunfire yet though… hopefully her gambit with the decoy exit would buy time.

She shooed the kids aside as soon as they cleared the top and told Pat to cover Ronnie in the shaft, and Chris to watch their asses. Rather than spooling the entire rope out again, she unthreaded the ascender, kicked the slack to freefall down the shaft, and re-threaded the ascender.

Squinting, she could make out Ronnie working with the rope for a moment, giving it two tugs, and holding her left hand out in a thumbs-up.

As Bex reeled in the slack and started to lift Ronnie, she and Pat could hardly believe their eyes. Ronnie must have threaded the rope through the drag handle on the top rear of her plate carrier, as well as her climbing harness at her waist, because she was rising BACKWARDS up the shaft, with her body at about a sixty degree angle and weapon aimed downwards at the door she’d pulled closed behind her. Woe betide anyone who actually managed to unlock it before she cleared the top.

No one did, and while everyone scampered to shove the carabiners and ascenders in the drag bag (time > ropes), Bex lauded her with mild awe. "That… was badass, Ronnie."

Ronnie grinned, and quipped, "Yep. I’m awesome. That’s why I get a mattress instead of a cot."

**

The rain had abated to a much more civil constant shower, like the kind people used to simulate with bedside sound machines to soothe themselves to sleep. Bex wasn’t about to come down from her adrenaline surge and doze off, but until it made her arm start burning again, she had to admit the cooling rain was pleasantly refreshing after all the stress and exertion. Pat and Chris were getting soaked for the first time though, whereas she hadn’t dried out that much during the excitement below and quickly reached peak dampness again.

The rain washed the blood already clinging to her upper arm away, and diluted what was still seeping out, but that also meant more volume dripping away as they hastened through the rain with their loads. She mentioned her worry about balancing opening up some distance from any pursuers against leaving a trackable trail, and Ronnie led them on a course change in the middle of an asphalt paved intersection, then two more, so any blood spatter would be lost on the wet, black surface. After several blocks, she started to lead them towards a restaurant storefront but slowed when Bex balked.

"Oh god, Ronnie, no. You know my luck with restaurants."

Granted, it was a fair point, so they detoured to a dentist’s office a few doors down. Inside, Rhonda had the kids drop the bag behind the reception desk, then left Pat there with Bex and cleared the office with Christine.

Once they were secure, she had Pat keep watch and Chris search for any meds or useful chemicals, surgical instruments, or remaining wound care supplies, like gauze or gloves. Then, she took Bex’s backpack off and ushered her to an exam chair under a skylight.

Bex decided a padded seat with armrests was something she didn’t mind being ordered into, and closed her eyes with a weary sigh. Her breathing gradually slowed while she heard Ronnie rifling through drawers and cabinets — she was definitely crashing after running all-out for so long. She opened her eyes groggily at Ronnie’s voice, and rolled her head that direction against the headrest.

"Okay, hon. You were right. This is better than a pho restaurant. Your wound has a lot of dirt and ash in it, and something looks gnarly about it, so I’m going to have to clean it.

She held up an oral irrigator, one of those squirty syringes that Bex had been given after she’d had teeth extracted as a kid to wash out the socket. Bex nodded wearily and watched Ronnie pour filtered water from Bex’s hydration reservoir into a paper "rinse and spit" cup, then place a towel across Bex’s arm at her elbow, and fill the syringe from the cup.

Bex smiled as Ronnie rested her hand on her forearm and wondered why she did it, but bit her lip and whimpered when Ronnie started a thin stream of water along the upper edge of the wound. She knew from past experience that Ronnie would be sympathetic, but methodical, and tried to focus on breathing smoothly while she reached over and held onto Ronnie’s free hand.

"You must have caught a ricochet. Maybe a tumbling bullet, or a chunk of debris, because this is more of a ragged gouge than clean slash. I’m going to have to rinse more inside it, and it’s probably going to hurt like a bitch." Ronnie briefly thought about moving Bex’s right hand to Jaime’s amulet, but decided if she wasn’t already reaching for a bittersweet crutch, maybe it was better in the long run. She settled for shifting her hand so she could rub the back of Bex’s thumb reassuringly with hers.

Bex nodded, and Ronnie tried to ignore when Bex’s grip on her off hand tightened while she worked. Poor kid wasn’t born into or raised for this life… though when Ronnie thought about Pat and Chris, mostly safe-ish, she was impressed with her little apprentice.

Apparently the Black Tusk troops really were a bunch of wusses, as their medkit antiseptic sprays were laced with topical anesthetics. Between that, and the wound being cleaned and no longer exposed, Bex started to feel better almost immediately as Ronnie dressed and covered it. She was impressed and a little touched when Ronnie cut and flattened one of those free sample / dental goodie bags and taped it around her arm to waterproof the bandage. Being patched up by her always felt like being doted on by the biggest, baddest alpha mama wolf. Or bear, if you wanted to be cliché. Frankly, Bex didn’t get to feel safe very often. Ronnie was still sitting on a stool next to her, so she leaned over the side of the chair and rested her head against what she could reach of her. It turned out to be mostly nylon weave and webbing, but she could still feel some of her radiant body heat and found it comforting.

Ronnie reached up and patted her. (Again, it mostly landed on torso armor, but Bex could still feel the vibration.) "I cleaned it up, but because of how much stuff got in and the ragged edges, it’s probably going to scar up. We should put more antibiotics on tonight, too."

"Mmm. Maybe it’ll make me look tough. Rawr!"

Ronnie chuckled. "I can vouch for the cliché that chicks dig scars. Guys, well. They might just be intimidated. But… if your performance earlier today was any indication, you’d like that."

Bex just grinned, and pushed her head against Ronnie more firmly.

**

Ronnie let Bex stay there and rest while she did a couple of check-ins. Bex was still practically just a kid (compared to her, anyway…), never went to Boot or Basic, and had seen some pretty intense combat in just the last few days — not to mention the shit that happened before she got to Broadway. She was rucking up and handling it, but Ronnie wasn’t surprised she’d hit the wall. Were things as they should be, Bex would be starting grad school and working on that "mind and body" thesis she’d wanted to research with her two majors, or applying for jobs, or hosteling across Europe or something. Nah, probably Southeast Asia, knowing her.

Bex didn’t think she really fell asleep, but only caught snatches of Ronnie’s conversations on the radio. "Sierra Charlie… birds in hand, on exfil… hornet’s nest kicked near…" She heard Seb’s voice at one point, intermingled with Ronnie’s, something about "Good to hear."

Ronnie eventually rousted her with a squeeze of her uninjured shoulder.

"Mom… can I have a balloon? Since we’re at the dentist…"

Rhonda gave Bex a look, trying to decide if she was barely awake or being silly, and then chuckled. "No, dear. The helium tank is empty. Chris actually already checked. But… you can have the hand truck it was strapped to, I’m sure the kids will love you for it since you’re clearly off sherpa duty until that arm knits up."

Bex pouted. "Fine. But I’m checking the sticker drawer for Felicia." She rose and poked around in the hallway cabinets, where she found a few sheets of possibilities to share with Sam, but got stuck staring at the baskets of cheap toys, on the verge of breaking into sobs because of all the kids that…

Ronnie’s arm landed firmly across her back as she returned from helping Pat and Chris lash the big bag onto the steel upright dolly. Bex found herself gently but inexorably steered and moved towards the front door. "Oookay, Time to go. This way. We’re walking, we’re picking up our backpacks, we’re leaving before the badguys follow any radio fix they got…"

Being guided through the motions got her brain back in gear by the time they hit the street and got rolling… literally. The hand truck upped their noise footprint a little, but they were on a pretty oblique route and the rain was still dampening a lot of sound. They were definitely making better time, and at their next brief rest, Bex sidled up next to Ronnie. "I’m sorry, Ronnie. That snuck up on me. I’m trying to be less fragile."

"Stow it, cookie. It’s hard having a heart these days. But we just gotta get safe for now. Remember, carry on for them, carry on for the others so those people can actually be around to remember them." Ronnie was staring out into the rain, but Bex did recall the lecture she was bullet-pointing.

Bex sighed. "Thanks, Ronnie. You’re a good mom."

Even off to her side, Bex could see Rhonda’s eyebrow twitch. "Oh lord." (Whoops. There’s that gruff exterior.) "If my DI’s could see me now…"

"Uh… I mean… solid copy?"

That at least got a smirk. "Better. Let’s get moving again." Bex gazed adoringly at her friend’s back just to spite her as everyone ducked back out of the Starbucks they’d been sheltering in. (Naturally, there had been a few minutes of intense searching, but prior "customers" had been thorough.)

Chris was looking like the high of being rescued was slowly being outweighed by irritation with the constant rain. Her expression drifted closer to "fuming" as she continually wiped water from her eyes and wrestled with her hair, which was beginning to resemble a flaxen mop. Pat seemed to just retreat into a soggy sullenness. Ronnie, well. It wasn’t a sandstorm, so she was good. Bex found herself able to focus much better, as the pain in her arm was generally a dull twinge compared to before. She was still caught off-guard the her earpiece popped and she heard Seb’s voice.

"Hey, princess. You out there?" Umm… what?

"Uh.. say again??" There was the slightest tinge of menace to her voice.

Seb’s reply was curiously nonchalant. "Hey, there you are. Are you all headed into the subway station yet?"

Okay, WTF. There had been discussion of probably using an overland route both ways. She glanced at Ronnie to make sure she was hearing this too, and saw her already ushering the kids into another random storefront. They were perplexed due to their lack of radios, but were savvy enough to know something was clearly developing, and hustled to comply.

Bex held her finger to her earpiece in an attempt to hear better over the rain’s background hiss. "Uh… yeah, we’re almost to it. It’ll be nice to get out of the rain."

"Heh, great. Wouldn’t want you and the captain to melt."

Bex pulled her mouth to one side and frowned, wiping lingering moisture from her brow. "Yeah, well. You know. We’re carrying a lot of stuff. We’ll probably be there in 45 minutes to an hour. Everything secure there?"

"Yes, ma’am."

Well, shit. "Okay. Cool. Hang tight, we’ll see you then."

"Great!"

Bex stopped transmitting after that, and nothing new came in. She checked to make sure her radio wasn’t on voice activation anymore, and looked at Ronnie. "Well, that’s a fucking trap."

Ronnie nodded. "Yup. Sure is nice that we’re only twenty minutes away, now that we have wheels — good thinking, padding that ETA. Let’s hope they’re not organized enough for a location fix, but we should double-time it for a few blocks."

Bex cinched her pack straps tighter with a grim nod. Then, to Pat and Chris: "C’mon. I’ll explain while we’re moving."

**

The group was hauling ass, considering how much loot encumbrance they were dealing with. They beelined for three blocks, then intentionally went off to the side by one more, and ducked into a promising alley. A recycling dumpster behind multiple little specialty retail shops was three-quarters full of old cardboard and packing materials, and they chose it to stash the big bag.

"So, this guy…" Pat leant against a wall under a small door canopy. "You said that first he was trying to kidnap you too? And then helped you find us?"

Rhonda nodded and Bex replied. "Yeah. He seemed… only loosely affiliated with those jackoffs, and came around with some nudges in the right direction." Then, with mock disappointment, "And I was gonna get me an ear…"

Ronnie shook her head. "Can you ever pass up an opportunity for a reference? Plus, you got to shoot them both, and you did get his eyes too." Patrick and Christine looked confused and tentatively horrified.

Dammit… "Not literally!" Bex gestured at Christine and then back at herself, up and down her torso. "Chris, you know what I mean!" She probably did, the body language Bex had spotted so far made her think Chris had Pat pretty well wrapped around her finger. "ANYway. Yes. He was oddly helpful. Also, he had a few opportunities to try to screw us over, and didn’t. So…" She glanced at Ronnie for confirmation.

"Yeah, I guess we should go save his ass. It’s not like I can complain about being short on ammo."

Bex chuckled and pointed at Ronnie’s spare, where she had set it into the dumpster on top of the drag bag. "Or machine guns. Ho ho ho?" Ronnie pointedly ignored her, so Bex consoled herself with mentally pouring one out for Alan Rickman, bless his masterfully sardonic soul.

Ronnie continued, addressing the other two. "I’m not sure what they’re planning for us though. So you two may want to sit this…"

"Oh, fuck that." Christine interrupted her, tossing her head to flick her sodden hair over her shoulder and hefting her new shotgun for emphasis. "If he’s why we’re free from those assholes and now he’s in trouble for it? Plus, I’m not exactly happy about getting snatched and locked up for a few days. I’d welcome the chance to go a little 'Shop smart, shop S-Mart’ on those fuckers." (Bex smirked at the quote drop.)

Patrick nodded from off to the side. "Where she goes, I follow." Bex had to fight to keep her smirk from growing and suppressed a snarky comment about him just liking the view.

Ronnie had a milder version of that covered. "Well, that is kinda why we’re all here in the first place. But, I was hoping the two of you would say something like that. Keep your heads down though, the whole point of coming out here was to get you home."

In a movie adaptation of their adventure, the next few minutes would have been presented as a montage accompanied by kickass heroic music. One short cut after another of magazines being topped off, replacement grenades clipped onto vests, slide racked and weapons shoved into holsters with determined "shunk" noises. Maybe even someone tying on a headband… except what they had instead (insert record-scratch "ziiiiip" noise in soundtrack here) was Christine pulling her damp hair back and tugging on a Starbucks visor.

She made eye contact with Bex and grinned menacingly. "What can I get started for you today, motherfuckers?"

Once the imaginary cinematography returned to normal, Ronnie pulled two sets of headphone / boom mic combinations from the assorted pilfered gear, and handed them over to Patrick and Christine along with her radio, and Branner’s reprogrammed to a new channel shared with Bex. "Radio silent until the party starts," she admonished, then passed Bex a pouch about the size of a dozen eggs and gestured for her to attach it to her hip.

Inside, Bex found one of those flexible snake cameras used by both plumbers for pipe inspections and tactical badasses for peeking under doors and through vents. Shiny! It looked like it was meant to connect to the arm tablets via a ruggedized micro USB connector.

Finally, they strew cardboard over the big bag, closed the dumpster lid as quietly as they could, and headed for the other end of the alley. (It probably would have made for a pretty good hero ensemble shot.)

**

They paused again in the final alley with the manhole cover, behind the restaurant’s redecorated kitchen. Bex shuddered a little, but focused on the task ahead as most of them shed their packs and second long guns — except for Chris, whose mother would have likely said that her face would get stuck in that feral grin if she kept doing it.

Bex saw the dog peek out from behind the derelict truck, giving it an incongruously silly little wave and "Ooh, hi!". On a whim, she took her cap off, dumped most of the remaining jerky into it, and set it on the ground two slow steps towards the dog. As she backed away towards the others, she half-whispered "Bye puppy, we gotta go shoot some bad guys!"

Let the others roll their eyes, they’re probably cat people.

Less burdened, they made fast progress to a different access hatch two blocks over. Bex connected the new peekaboo camera to her PDA, and fed it through the vent holes. Seeing nothing suspicious, they jimmied it open and aside, and Bex was the first to drop down onto an elevated walkway several feet above the bottom of a large drain tunnel, which the PDA maps showed connecting to the barred-off area near the bolthole.

She waved Pat and Chris down with a half-volume "All clear!" and gave them some final reminders.

"Remember, just stay in good cover behind this railing, where the flat solid parts are, and stay quiet until we kick things off, and then give anyone you see what-for. Given the angle you’ll be shooting down from, you won’t have to worry about hitting us, and ricochets off the floor should go right over our heads."

They both nodded, and Pat asked what the signal was going to be. Bex grinned. "Let’s keep it unambiguous." Holding up both hands, she opened her fingers quickly, and mouthed an exaggerated but silent "BOOM".

Bex and Ronnie’s fast walk back to the original sewer entrance got them down the ladder fifteen minutes before their false ETA, and Bex wished she’d padded it more. Thank god for the stamina she’d built up on the volleyball courts and practicing for a charity run involving a weighted backpack, sometimes she felt bad enough about slowing Ronnie down as it is.

Black Tusk must have shut down their IFF, as there were no blips on the map, so she kept about two feet of the camera’s semi-flexible neck in her left hand and poked it around every corner as they advanced. It helped them make good time to the last intersection before the Y-split at the boiler room entrance — the way they needed to go branched 90 degrees off to the right, and the path ahead of them was obstructed with bars like the branch near the door, where Pat and Chris should be skulking.

She’d hoped to see a way to get across to the opposite side of the tunnel so she could have interlocking fields of fire with Ronnie (who, of course, had been the one to teach her that term). Unfortunately, there were a group of five Black Tusk mercs ahead of them, looking like they were getting ready to take up positions watching the other approach, where the mythical princess was supposedly arriving with her entourage soon. Even if she made it across without them noticing, she couldn’t see a way out if she got pinned down. Ronnie seemed to second that opinion and placed a restraining hand on Bex’s shoulder when she saw her glance across the passage speculatively.

Instead, Bex nodded and stowed the camera, and hunkered her lither, lighter armed frame as small and low as she could at the corner in a half kneel while Ronnie stood above and slightly behind her, using the corner as looser cover. Bex glanced back at Ronnie long enough to tap a flashbang on her vest questioningly and see the nod of reply, so she fished it out, pulled the pin, and glanced back again to mirror Ronnie’s throw of her own.

Two of the five troopers were facing partially towards Bex and Rhonda, and got about as far as "GRENA…" before both flash bangs blew almost simultaneously. Bex popped out and scampered a few feet forward to one of those metal flood control baffles, and switched her Tavor to a left-handed grip to fire with less exposure. When her eyes had adjusted after the flashes, she started putting quick shots into targets. The first few startled her when the flying brass shell casings flung right past her eyes, and she made sure to keep her chin and neck pulled back. The ejection port was MUCH closer to her face than she was accustomed to, and she was glad for her mask when she caught a stronger acrid whiff of escaping gunsmoke gases.

Ronnie’s suppressed bullet hose chattered rhythmically behind her, like a reciprocating sprinkler head on its rapid-fire backsweep. The disoriented mercenaries’ attention was split when Patrick and Christine started firing from the other side, through the portcullis-like posts. Bex heard the familiar staccato triple-crack of her M4, but that was quickly drowned out by a more basso BOOMBOOMBOOMBOOMBOOMBOOMBOOMBOOM that must have been Chris rapid-firing her shotgun into the group. Bex started to up her rate of fire to give her time to reload as she spotted two more troopers in chunkier armor coming from the far tunnel and another popped out of the boiler room, but less than a second later, the same pattern thundered out as Christine emptied the OTHER shotgun’s eight shells.

Apparently she wasn’t done, because right after that volley echoed through the tunnels, she let loose with what must have been an entire magazine from one of the Black Tusk carbines. Bex was momentarily impressed that Chris must have gone full Seven Samurai up there, with a whole stack of loaded weapons to fire, drop, and replace.

As the last of the first group fell to the aggressive counter-ambush, Bex was in a prime position to see grenades coming into the intersection a split-second before the others, and yelled out "COVER!" at the top of her lungs, curling as small as she could behind her barricade. She had confidence Ronnie would, and hoped the kiddos would, hunker down before the first grenades announced themselves as more flashbangs. A third device exploded with an additional tinkling all around her that identified it as some sort of fragmentation grenade. Then, hisses as smoke grenades clouded up the intersection.

There was an odd clunking sound and a light swept through the smoke from several feet above the ground. When it had come most of the way into the intersection, Bex and Ronnie put a few experimental shots into the smoke, about halfway between the light and the ground. This produced a dance of sparks and metallic pings, and the light snapped towards their direction followed by an unrelenting hail of machine gun fire from what must be one of those armed robots Seb described. It pelted the cover she was behind, the tunnel wall behind and above her, and the corner Ronnie ducked behind in a steady stream. Seemingly, the robot eschewed short controlled bursts like Ronnie would use. That made Bex start to worry about how much ammunition it must be carrying.

The deluge stopped after several seconds, and she dared to edge her weapon and one eye to the side of her barricade. The spotlight twitched as the machine spotted her, and started firing again. She ducked back just in time, and fumbled for one of the "real" grenades they’d liberated from the Black Tusk armory, hoping for another pause in fire.

It came sooner this time when Bex heard Pat and Chris lay into the roughly pony-sized robot mech thing. She wasn’t sure if they had anything more in mind than buying her and Ronnie some time but she was more than happy to prime and throw the grenade as she hollered "FRAGS OUT", followed by another. She’d never thrown "lethal" grenades before, only a few practice smoke and flash cans Broadway had foraged from a police station a while back… but aside from an extra safety catch her thumb found on the flyaway handle piece, the process seemed pretty much the same. She had just enough time to see the first land satisfyingly close to the robot’s feet before she covered back up for the blasts right after chucking the second.

They went off with a pair of popping bangs, and Bex peeked back out tentatively in case the bot re-identified her as its active target. She was relieved to see it staggered by the blow, its underbelly perforated by shrapnel. Still, the first shotgun blast from Chris drew immediate return fire again. Thinking through her options, she let the Tavor dangle between her chest and knees on its sling, and fished around on her back for her fuckhead of a would-be brother-in-law’s contribution to her arsenal. She got the double-barrel in front of her and slowly opened the breech, just enough so the shells would lift slightly, not come popping out. A quick glance confirmed which barrel held which shell before she reclosed it, and she cocked the hammer for the solid slug, popped up and took a split second to aim and brace for the recoil, and fired. The boom of the shotgun was joined by a metallic SPANG and the machine stumbled back one step. Ronnie lit it up with an extended burst, and as that hammered it further, Bex spotted a jagged shadow in its armor.

She sent out an agnostically wide-cast mental plea to anything that would listen, thumbed back the other hammer, held the shotgun further forward (closer to the robot and farther from her face seemed like a good idea all around), and pulled the second trigger.

Bex no longer believed Ronnie’s assurance that this amount of phosphorous was not scary shit. With a frightful din that was both gunshot and rushing roar, her vision whited out and heat washed back across every inch of any exposed skin. Blinded, she ducked back down, setting the shotgun down gingerly and following the hard contours of the Tavor back to its handgrip.

Familiar gunfire echoed momentarily — her companions must have caught less of the flash. As she blinked her watering eyes clear, she was encouraged to hear fire from both ends of the tunnel, so she peeked out again, aiming down her Tavor. The machine was down on one of three knees, sparks coming from the turret, and white smoke leaking from many of the holes in its hull. She was especially happy about the color of the smoke — Sam had told her stories about gladiatorial combat robots she had helped build (and fight) in an academic club, and Bex remembered that usually meant a lithium battery fire. As the robot started to topple further, she had a moment to even remember Sam’s favorite pro league robot to watch when she was a kid - a giant red ladybug with a saw in its belly. What a difference between that and this beast…

The peaceful interlude was short-lived though, as her position still let her see down the incoming tunnel before the others.

She wondered just how they’d managed to get Darth Vader for a boss fight, and what kind of 'roided out WWE star was in the hulking suit of black super-heavy armor thumping and clanking around the corner. Her mind flailed for details such as these even as her lizard brain lifted her gun. Terrifyingly, the giant’s head turned from the carnage in the junction to look at her, and it hefted its huge weapon towards her. Shit shit shitshitshit.

Bex had seen and heard miniguns fire in movies, games, TV shows, etc… but what the 5.1 surround home theaters or the THX cinemas never quite captured was how terrifyingly loud they were… especially when they were aimed at you. There was none of that "takes a moment to spin up" nonsense inserted by game developers to "preserve balance". Real miniguns were fucking O.P., period dot QED.

The distinctive tearing BRAAAP sound she’d expected to hear seemed a hundred times louder as she cowered behind the suddenly very inadequate metal half-wall. The sound echoed in the tunnel, reverberating in her head, and she could even feel it in her chest. It wasn’t alone though, it was joined by a storm of impacts and ricochets around, above, in front of, behind her. Everything combined into an unholy cacophony as the barricade in front of her rang like a fire alarm bell, dirty water sprayed from the muck in the floor channel, and chunks and dust from the wall and ceiling rained down on her.

She’d seen plenty of horror over the prior months, but this was the single most immediately terrifying experience of her life, and her mental excretory mantra became verbal as she pictured what would happen to an exposed limb, or if the dimpled steel in front of her gave way. A sharp explosion amid the noise made her jump, and then another — maybe Ronnie had curve-tossed grenades around the corner, but Bex wasn’t sure what more she’d be able to do for her since the same torrent of fire would pin them both down…and the grenades didn’t seem to have enough of an effect.

The answer came in the form of Christine’s seemingly trademark double-octet volleys. Apparently the force of the blasts must have been enough to ring the gunner’s bell, even if the buckshot didn’t penetrate armor well, because the metal in front of Bex stopped ringing. Maybe he staggered forward a step or something? When Bex peeked, he was turning with menacing slowness to hose down the grated-off tunnel.

Bex hoped Pat and Chris got under solid cover quickly enough as her fear shifted from herself to them. Shock and an urgent need to act warred within her in a moment of inaction, which added a little shame to the mix, until Ronnie bodily dragged her backwards from the pinned position, firing her P90 over her. At the corner, Ronnie pivoted to spin Bex around and past her to the tunnel wall. Bex looked up and met her eyes, still speechless, but nodded when Ronnie thumped her on the shoulder. As she re-oriented, she spotted Ronnie’s M249 propped against the wall even though there was still a connected ammo belt. Had she set it down to haul Bex out of danger? Or maybe because the little 5.7mm rounds on the P90 would have better penetration?

She clung to that little thread of thought, trying to haul her mind back into the fight. Fight smart, fight smart. Ammo crate was probably a great target, but they’d think of that too, and it’d be armored, right? Maybe the ammo belt? She looked down at her Tavor, tugged the magnifier up into position behind the sight, and switched out her partially full magazine for a fresh one — any opportunity she spotted was going to need to be seized all-out.

Dropping to a low crouch again, below and behind Ronnie, she shifted her weight left to only lean out with a minimum amount of exposure and managed to put a handful of rounds on target. Unfortunately, the feed belt had a bulky metal flex enclosure, which moved with the gunner’s aim and with her shot impacts. No single carbine round was going to puncture it, and she couldn’t drill through a focused spot with subsequent hits — they all just glanced off a different section.

Dammit! Okay. Strengths = weaknesses. The most terrifying advantage this thing has is sheer sustained volume of fire. If she couldn’t attack the supply… maybe the speed? Comes from all those barrels, and the rotating… the rotating barrels! They’re electrically driven, that’s why they fire full speed right off the bat.

He wasn’t looking her way, so she shifted her gun back to her right shoulder for optimal accuracy and scooted out a few more inches, studying the minigun through her enlarged view. It would be on the back half… probably on the side to reduce overall length? There! As the gunner swept his aim back and forth, still firing in alarmingly long bursts, she saw the shadow of a cylindrical lump the size of a large soup can protruding from the main bulk of the gun. The end facing her had a series of inset and raised rings, with a bump in the middle — almost like the top of a battery — but in this case, she was hoping it was the shell around an electric motor, connected to the rotating assembly by some meshed internal gears or something.

Flipping her fire selector to single rounds, she took a deep breath and let it back out, held the Tavor particularly snug against her shoulder — grateful for its rear-heavy weight balance with her left arm weakened. Following the movements of his spraying, it seemed her best chance was at either end of a swing, and she took those opportunities to try tagging that small center stud like she was driving a nail into a bullseye.

The first two rounds were on target, the third a touch wide, but on the fourth, the roar of the minigun stuttered. Bex fought back excitement and focused on putting several repeat rounds in for effect. When the gun stuttered twice more, the big wielder turned his attention to it, thumping it with his gauntleted fist… which one of her shots pinged off of. The direction of the impact force made him look up at her. Well, she hoped it stung, you steroid sucking mutant asshole. The big gun started to swing back her way, and before he finished his turn, she flicked the Tavor back to full auto to rip off a good dozen rounds at the glowering armored face, because, well, fuck him, that’s why.

As she and Ronnie dove back behind the eroded corner, he started firing their way again and she supposed she had at least beat something out of true in the motor housing, because the incoming fire was coming in (still very deadly) fits and spurts. Between their noise, she could hear Ronnie shouting something into her radio as she waggled a smoke canister at her. She nodded back, and prepped her last one to throw. Their throw angle should hopefully bank off the far wall and bounce a little further towards the hulking brute.

She wondered what Ronnie was up to when she slung her P90 — she could still see rounds left in the latest translucent plastic magazine along its top edge — in favor of picking up the M249 again. Bex tossed a glance back down their entrance tunnel just in case, and then tried to get ready to support whatever Ronnie was about do.

As for that, she watched her partner shift her LMG to a left-handed grip, hold it out away from her body facing across to her right, and blindfire around the corner during one of the gaps between incoming barrages. Even when those resumed, she fired from behind the corner, but she was so far back she couldn’t possibly be hitting anything but the wall across from them.

Suddenly, Ronnie set the M249 down, grabbed Bex, and using a surprising amount of strength, hauled her from her crouch towards the wall. For a flash, Bex was worried she’d done something wrong when her back slammed against the bricks and she saw Ronnie still moving towards her quickly, but then Bex realized her friend was covering her face with her own chest, elbows protectively around the side of her head, and curling her own face with her fists over her ears.

Bex had just re-inhaled the breath expelled by the wall impact, planning to ask Ronnie what was happening, when the loudest, sharpest BANG she’d ever heard (and felt!) crashed through her. She thought she caught a glimpse of smoke rushing around the corner at them from under Ronnie’s arm, and then she was trying to pop hear ears and was incredibly grateful she had her mask on — Ronnie coughed into the top of her head and pulled her shemagh up over her face bandit-style as she staggered upright and stepped away.

She saw Ronnie’s mouth move behind the neck scarf as she helped pull her up much more gently than before, but she couldn’t make out the words and shook her head in confusion. Ronnie moved her mouth closer to Bex’s ear, and then Bex could barely make out her shouting "SORRY!" from far away.

Bex smiled weakly before remembering that wouldn’t work through her mask, and patted Ronnie’s arm twice. Ronnie’s nod seemed grateful, and they both took up their guns and cautiously peeked around the corner.

The first thing to catch her eye in the now very dusty and much darker passageway was one of those standard-issue Black Tusk carbines, newly bent to about a thirty degree angle. The aluminum of the fore grip around the barrel had deformed, creased, and split along the curve, torn edges gleaming silver.

They crept forward cautiously, dust wafting through their light beams, and the tension eased from Bex’s back and neck as she spotted the armored hulk, still and silent against the wall several feet from where she’d last seen him upright. She glanced above the body at the fresh gouges in the wall and wondered what kind of G-forces had been involved.

Physics had been one of her middling classes, so she warily slipped the tip of the Tavor’s suppressor into the narrow gap between the armored neck and the massive shoulder pauldrons that hunched up around the joint, gave it a little wiggle and shove when she felt resistance, and sent three rounds home for good measure. The up-close shine of her mounted light showed a splash of red around the new hole, which brought a grisly satisfaction that allowed her to turn away and survey the rest of the sce… carnage.

A wide divot had been blasted into the concrete floor, and the freshly exposed material was a much lighter gray, spiderwebbed with cracks. All the lovely drainage goo had been blown outwards for at least ten feet, the robot chassis had separated from two legs and tumbled at least a few times, and the organic bodies… well. Eew. Bex covered her mouth in a reflexive action, which reminded her of her mask. She decided to leave it on for the moment, but be ready to rip it off if any of her passing ripples of nausea threatened to overwhelm her.

She took some consolation the bodies had hopefully been already dead before being… concussively butchered. She was very careful not to specifically count the handful of scattered limbs and.. oh god. That helmet still has a head in it. Her abdomen convulsed and she snapped her gaze to the ceiling. While she was trying not to vomit, she noticed how one of the only two still functional lights was flickering. Please don’t let the hangover + flashbang headache come back as a migraine…

As she looked away, motion caught her eye beyond the bars, and she refocused on Christine peeking around the corner of ground level, while Patrick started down a ladder from the walkway behind her. Both of their eyes were wide, but Chris blinked into a grin and triumphantly crowed, "Venti nonfat demo charge to go, BITCH!" as she flipped double middle fingers towards the scene.

More motion drew Bex’s eye back to Ronnie shaking her head. "Jesus, girl. How much did you use?"

The blonde woman stopped her triumphant touchdown dance. "Well, I mean… my boss in 'Logs' always carries on about how 'two is one and one is none', so…" (Her voice shifted deeper for the impersonation, and then back to a giggle.)

Ronnie just shook her head, and Bex reflected on how she didn’t know this girl before today, beyond being able to recognize her in passing as a resident… but she was getting to be both unnerved and impressed. Maybe this was why Pat is so into her? In Logistics, she would have worked with Erik enough to at least be able to recognize bricks of explosives and remote detonators… that must have been what Ronnie was on the radio about. She supposed when you worked in Logs, you came fully equipped… something about bringing high explosives to a gunfight.

As their hearing continued to return, and Bex had carefully peeked into the ongoing tunnel for any more surprises, they heard raised voices from the boiler room. Bex thought she could pick out Seb, Branner, and an unknown third. She waved at Pat through the bars for her M4 and passed him the Tavor, checked the under-barrel shotgun and loaded 5.56 magazine’s window, and then readied her flex camera again. Meanwhile, Ronnie set down her M249, readying her P90 and a fresh magazine, and stood ready for her at the left side of the short passage leading to the door.

Bex carefully stepped over the IR tripwire for the alarm just in case they’d figured it out, and fished around in the recess left behind by the detonated Claymore mine. The remnants of the control wiring led her fingers back to the hole they ran through, and she snaked the camera into the available space.

Someone she guessed was a Black Tusk officer was arguing with Sebastien, whose hands were cuffed behind him again, at the back of the room. Branner stood closer to the front, an SMG in-hand, looking back and forth between the door and the argument nervously. His armor was nearby, but not on -- maybe Seb had distracted and delayed them when the fighting started? Bex quietly removed the tablet’s wristband from her arm, leaving it to dangle by the attached camera, and turned it to show Ronnie. Then, she held up a "wait" gesture to Ronnie, who nodded while Bex shifted to a crouch against the rightmost wall.

Without eyes on the room, it would be a risky entry even if they still had flash bangs — as their first encounter with Seb and Branner demonstrated. But with visibility, she waited for Branner’s attention to linger on the argument, nodded sharply, and Ronnie opened the door forcefully. Bex immediately stormed in and sidestepped to the right while Ronnie flowed in and left, laser from the P90 on the officer. To his credit, Seb took a couple of quiet steps so he was off-angle from the firing lines.

Branner’s head whipped around, and despite a challenging "FREEZE asshole!" from Bex, his weapon started to rise. She pulled both triggers simultaneously this time, putting three rounds and a side order of buckshot into his chest — and she didn’t hurt herself this time! She was improving. Turning to the officer, whose hand was on a pistol butt, but not moving… "How about you?"

The man’s heavy brow furrowed and his jaw clenched and worked as he weighed his chances, but she’d clearly made an impression dealing with Branner. Seb tried to nudge his thinking in the smart direction. "Come on, Major. Just walk away…"

"Shut up!" The major’s head turned a fraction towards Seb, but his eyes stayed on Bex and Ronnie. "All this for a piece of shit like him? He’s a fucking traitor."

Bex curtly half shook her head. "That’s debatable."

"All enemies, foreign and domestic," Ronnie added. "Looks like he’s wearing the right colors from where I’m standing."

"And, even if he rightly is, he’s our traitor, so stand the hell down." Bex’s armor and gear creaked as she leaned further into her shooting stance.

"You’ll just let me walk?"

She briefly glanced to Ronnie for guidance. Another deferential shrug. What the hell, Ronnie. She thought about her advice in this same room hours prior and pulled down her mask to address the apparent major. "Yes. But you take a message to your people. It seems like y’all might just be passing through. Just fucking do that and go away. Leave us and the rest of the locals alone. We didn’t start any shit with you, you assholes just tromped on in thinking you were the baddest motherfuckers around, and it turns out we were a real rude surprise. Just fucking walk away."

The major clearly stewed for a minute, but moved his hand slowly away from his pistol.

Ronnie stepped from her side of the room to behind Bex, and they both covered him as they let him exit. Ronnie also followed, keeping him at gunpoint, and Bex turned to Seb.

She chuckled with self-satisfaction when he pointed to Branner’s belt for keys, and she held up the pair she’d kept from earlier. As she approached, he looked almost puzzled. "You didn’t have to come back for me."

Bex scoffed dismissively, and put a hand on his shoulder to turn him around to get to the cuffs. "You didn’t have to warn us. Also, did you miss the whole 'no one left behind' vibe or what?"

The cuffs clicked off, and she turned him back around and hugged him. At least the new armor meant he couldn’t, like, squeeze her extra tight to feel her boobs squash between them or something.

As she let go, she noticed he had new bruises and scrapes on his forehead, cheeks, and jaw. She frowned and fretted briefly, gently touching his face with the two fingers and thumb her shooter’s gloves left exposed on her right hand. She was surprised momentarily by her own sudden tenderness, and by how… close… their faces were… and it would only take…

"I have to admit, I definitely prefer being handcuffed by you than those assholes."

"Oh, god!!" She thumped his chest with both fists and shoved him away. "You were doing so well."

She pivoted on a heel and went to go find Ronnie. Gah. What an idiot. Him too.

**

Their first priority had to be linking back up with Patrick and Christine. There was an awkward moment with them and Seb through the rails, and an exchange of congratulations and weapons with Bex. As she reconnected the Tavor to her sling, Bex told the lovebirds to hang tight and wait for them in good cover, while Ronnie kicked around various strewn weapons from the fight. None of them were blatantly pristine enough to trust without inspection, so she thrust Branner’s SMG into Seb’s hand. He wasn’t expecting it, and mumbled a hesitant thanks.

Bex quirked an eyebrow while she watched Ronnie set him straight. "Oh, don’t think I trust you behind me with that weapon yet, Corporal. Your ass is gonna be one step to the left and three in front of me at all times."

"Copy that. But, uh, I don’t know where we’re going?"

"Oh, we’ll tell you," Ronnie replied, emphasizing the verb.

And they did. Once topside they gestured or told him which direction to take at intersections until they’d reached the hatch Patrick and Christine had gone down. Collecting them went without incident, so they retraced their steps to their packs (except for Christine’s, of course — Bex wondered how much lighter it was now) as the rain began receding into a drizzle.

Bex left hers where it lay, and squatted to retrieve her cap. It was empty and had been knocked around from where she’d left it, and she felt a little tickle of excitement. Looking around, she saw the dog peeking out from behind the truck, so she sat down with her arms propped up on her knees, feet out in front of her. Adopting the absurd treacly voice from before, she began fishing in her pocket again for the remaining jerky.

"Hi again, sweetie! Can you come say hi this time? My friends should really shut up and go back around the corner so they don’t scare you, shouldn’t they, huh? Don’t worry, they’re pretty nice. The big one in all the camouflage is a good Alpha once you get to know her."

She shook out her cap and was halfway to putting it back on before she considered how much dog slobber might be smelling it up… and just set it on her knee. She was pretty starving herself right about then so she bit the untouched ends off of two of the three remaining jerky strips and waved the rest in front of her while she gnawed on the mouthful.

She had the pup’s interest, but it was still hesitant to approach until she tossed one piece halfway, continuing her quiet verbal enticements. She fell silent for a moment while the dog devoured the intermediary lure and she got her first good look. It had the prominent rock-solid skull of some kind of Pitt or Boxer mix, and fortunately nobody had cropped its ears or tail in its youth. Splashes of some sort of exotic coloration were brindled in waves throughout its coat, and it had inherited expressive eyebrow spots just a hint lighter than the base charcoal gray fur.

With a final slurping chomp, it looked at her hopefully. She avoided dominant eye contact, keeping her gaze at the remaining jerky. "Look, you big lug. You’ve had almost an entire bag and this stuff is NOT easy to come by. If you’re just going to be a tease about it, I’m not going to waste the rest. I’m hungry too. So you gotta come here if you really want the rest of it." An adorable thoughtful head tilt rekindled her hope. "Come on, baby. C’mere!" She let out a little whistle, clicked her tongue, and made a couple of kissy noises, not sure which particular dialect of Dog Person this pup was raised with. But food = love was pretty universal, right?

"Come, buddy. Please? Pretty please with steak-like emergency rations on top? Maybe some sausage hunks? C’mere!" She snapped her fingers quietly. "Get your cute ass over here, dummy!"

One final wag of the jerky started a slow tentative approach, and she tightened her grip on the treats so they didn’t all get wolfed down at once. Just a tiny bit closer… the dog jumped a little when her left hand made contact with its shoulder, but it remained content to keep slurping and nibbling at the jerky. She let the pieces slip slowly while scritching at its neck and ears and stroking the muscular but underweight sides. Once acceptance of her touch seemed solid, she opened her right hand to feed it the rest of the jerky from her gloved open palm. She snuck a peek at the dog’s undercarriage, and he (apparently) sniffed her empty palm, then her knees and cap, finding his way to her left pocket and wagging his tail as she laid her other hand on him too.

"Oh my goodness, you’re such a good boy, yes you are. Can we be friends? Huh? What’s this tag say?" No contact information, just a simple name imprint. "Rufus, huh? Okay, hi sweetie. nice to meet youuuaaaaaahhh what’re you doing?!?" The dog stepped in closer and was sniffing at her face and hair, then suddenly started licking her face in big slobbery swaths.

Her voice devolved into giggling and squealing protests, which only seemed to excite Rufus more as he knocked her backwards and lay halfway top her. "Oh my god you’re so smelly!! Ahh! No, stop licking me there, it tickles you oaf!" Her giggles gradually merged into peals of joyful laughter.

When her friends took a step towards them, maybe to try to assist, she adopted a world class pout and spat petulantly, "Nnnnno! He’s mine!" Wrapping her arms around his neck, she continued. "He’s big and stupid and smelly and probably has fleas but I love him and he’s mine, you can’t have him!"

Eventually Rufus stopped trying to slobber her to death and just sat there with a dumb satisfied doggy grin, panting his foul dog breath. She just turned her face away from his mouth repeatedly as he looked around, burying her face in his grungy fur while she laughed quietly for several minutes and definitely was not crying happily, that was all just rain, nobody could prove anything.

**

The rain was passing on by the time Bex rose — she caught the last little sprinkles just in time to at least get her hands, face, and safety glasses a cursory rinse. Rufus was a little skeptical of the others for now, seemingly content to stay by her side but getting antsy if anyone approached. Ronnie stayed at a respectful distance, but looked over her disheveled state and chuckled. "Oh, Sam is going to kill you over what you did to her hard work. You better hope she likes dogs."

Despite the gentle mockery, Ronnie provided another length of paracord, which Bex used to fashion a leash between Rufus’ collar and her belt with a simple half-hitch that could pull away in case of emergency. After that was sorted out, she pulled her phone from her backpack and switched to selfie mode for a quick look and groaned. The braids had gone completely wobbly, and her hair and neck were streaked with caked dust and mud. It seemed that Rufus’ affection had actually improved matters for her face, even though she could tell she still mildly stank of dog spit amongst the wafts of storm drain muck, cordite, sweat, and antiseptic from her arm. Oh well. She’d probably think it was funny later, so she took a picture crouched down with the big meathead and tagged it as a favorite alongside some of her pictures with Ronnie, and with Jaime in the rooftop garden. Thinking of how Jaime would have liked Rufus felt better and hurt less than she expected it to.

Pat spoke up (a rarity) as they were about to leave, mentioning that he and Chris had seen a pet store on some of their previous… uh… walks… that wouldn’t be too far out of their way after they retrieved the hand cart and larger "bag o’ loot". This got him a warm smile of thanks from Bex where she stood several feet away with her big lovable mutt.

The trip to both stops went smoothly enough, and she was able to scavenge a real leash, doggie saddlebags, a large bagful of assorted toys, another of treats and canned dog food, and two bags of dry kibble with a mental note to come back for more. She also came away with a few new scrapes when she used an elbow pad instead of a gun butt to smash in the locked case holding flea treatments, and a full-sized plastic-bodied shopping cart to pile it all in.

Chris was very excited about the cart, and tasked Pat with securing another. She promptly deposited his backpack and hers in it when he returned, and shook her head bemusedly when she saw two bowls already in it and another bag of kibble and a waterproof dog bed on the shelf underneath. Allegedly, they’d all been right there alongside the cart where he found it in the back room.

This was almost as plausible as Rhonda’s attempt at a stern disapproving face and disdainful tone when she pointed out Bex forgot about grooming supplies, and threw a handful of combs, brushes, and nail clippers into the first cart. "I don’t know how else you were expecting to get that mangy mutt squared away and presentable. What would you do without me…"

Seb, for his part, took to pushing the first cart down the street, mumbling about her arm and leaving her free to watch for trouble as he plunked his SMG down in the cart’s child seat. She gave him even odds for being helpful or continuing a campaign to try and get in her pants… but that didn’t really differ from everything else he’d done to date. Uh, maybe a bad phrasing choice there. Let’s go with 'before now' instead. Either way, at least he was being useful.

That left her and Rufus free to walk point, with Seb pushing the cart behind her, Patrick and Chris trading off between pulling the hand truck and leaning on the shopping cart carrying their packs, and Ronnie bringing up the rear and reporting their progress over the radio. Another Sierra patrol was routed to escort them home and they all felt the strains of the prior days start to fade as the sun poked through the first gaps in the clouds.

**

Broadway / "C.S. D-3" didn’t really have the wherewithal for a parade, but their return was definitely anticipated and a source of commotion. Sam, Erik, and the comms team were excited to start picking their brains about all of the high tech salvage they couldn’t bring with them, and David wanted as much intel about Black Tusk as he could pump out of Seb for his contacts in the military remnants. Lassart, of course, wanted a "full debrief", without actually telling them what that meant to him.

All of that went right out the window as soon as Sam spotted Rufus. It seemed she’d already known he was going to be joining their community, given the container of kitchen scraps that appeared from the messenger bag slung over her shoulder. She heaped praise upon him and asked how he liked his new mama, which pretty much just led to a bunch of tail wagging and snarfing sounds as he ate.

But, when she rose to talk to Bex, her demeanor changed when she checked her movement and plucked at Bex’s sleeve, revealing more of the wound covering that was peeking out.

"What’s this?" She didn’t wait for Bex’s answer before she started working at the improvised waterproofing layer, her eyes flicking up to Bex’s demandingly, and then back to the wound.

"Ronnie said I got winged by a stray ricochet in the second firefight we were in, as we got the kids out."

"Wait, second?!? Wasn’t there another when you went back to the boiler room to collect that new guy? So that makes three?" Her tone’s temperature was rising. Uh-oh.

"Yyyeaaahhhh… uh… all things considered we probably got off pretty light given everything we ran into."

Sam finished peeling back the dental sample baggie and sucked her breath through her teeth in a dismayed hiss. Bex looked down and was surprised at how much more blood than she’d realized was soaking the gauze wrappings. Maybe all the movement and exertion interfered with clotting…

She was still a little speechless when Sam determinedly popped the quick-release clips on her backpack straps so it fell away onto the crate Bex was leaning against. Next, Sam unclipped her Tavor from the sling harness, set it alongside the pack, and then hauled Bex upright by hooking her fingers in the load-carrying webbing on the recon armor.

Sam clicked her tongue at Rufus, and her "come, boy" was carefully flat and neutral.. but when Lassart started to approach, her jaw set fiercely and her eyes flashed dangerously. Bex had never heard her snarl before, but her "He can fucking wait" was spat with enough venom that Rufus looked up nervously at her. Bex scratched his ear reassuringly, and Sam was immediately contrite. "Oh, I’m sorry, sweetheart, not you, you’re a good boy."

Sam sat her down again across the street, where their resident nurse and a few trainees were checking on Patrick and Christine after their captivity. She nodded curtly at them — perhaps an "As you were, I got this…" signal— before gloving up and gently cutting away the gauze. She worked along the visibly less bloodstained material on the inner side of Bex’s arm, and again made the same wincing sound as she peeled the rest back slowly. Her tone softened and took on a more sympathetic note as she looked up at Bex. "Oh, Sparky. I’m glad it wasn’t too deep, but hell…"

Rufus rested his head on Bex’s right leg and she stroked him adoringly to distract herself. She reckoned Sam’s hands worked with fine circuitry all the time, so maybe that’s why her deft motions as she cleaned, inspected, and glue-sutured the ragged gash were impressively precise. It even tickled a few times as she re-dressed the wound with a fresh covering, including a rather cleverly contrived overlapping pair of large water-resistant consumer bandages. Finally, she sighed and hugged Bex tightly.

Bex returned the embrace as best she could. "Thank you, Sam. I’m sorry we worried you."

"Damn right you did!" Ah, here comes the fear aggression. Sam let her up to return to the main cluster of people but laid into her en route. "Cutting off mid broadcast and staying silent for hours. What the hell? If you weren’t already hurt I’d have half a mind to put you into medical myself. And as for Gunny…"

Bex tried to defuse that line of thought, at risk of drawing more chastising for the overall danger they’d gotten into. "Sammie, I’m sorry. They were pretty high tech, and we needed to be absolutely sure we could surprise them. It paid off big, a couple of times too, for what it’s worth. And, Ronnie did protect me from some pretty serious shit, I swear."

"Hmmph. You know I’m going to ask more about what that shit was later. Neither of you is getting off that easy." They walked wordlessly for a few more steps, and then Sam seemed partially mollified. "Well, fine. At least you brought me a present, according to Ronnie?"

Bex nodded and gestured towards the pile of righteously pillaged gear.

"And these boys you brought home…" Sam gave Rufus a good scratch under his collar and got her hand licked in return. "This one is just precious. And that new guy… Sebastien, with an E, someone said? YUM."

Bex scoffed. "Oh, Sammie, he’s ALL yours. But watch out for that one, he can’t keep his fricking eyes to himself and off’a me."

Sam laughed openly at her. "Well, I mean, nobody can really blame him for that!" She tried to elbow Bex in the rib and just got all that armor instead. "Ow! No fair." Instead, she settled for a small hip check and ushered her forward as they rejoined the loose knot of people.

It seemed Ronnie had taken one for the team and appeased Lassart for the time being, and Bex joined the group just a few exchanges before he asked if "there was anything settlement could do to recognize their efforts in the last few days".

Ronnie answered first, holding up three fingers. "One, she keeps the new rifle and never touches that piece of shit ever again. I know you know what I mean. Two, she keeps the dog. Three, give the new guy a chance to prove himself." She waved her upright hand towards where Seb stood off to the side with David and Erik.

Lassart nodded. "I had presumed the first two were givens or there would be a thoroughly vocal, even violent response. And, it seems he’s off to a good start. But, for yourself?"

Ronnie’s voice implied wrath as only noncommissioned officers could truly master. "Did... I... stutter?"

Bex continued scratching the top of Rufus’ giant skull, but looked to Ronnie with a deeply thankful smile that reached her almost tearful eyes, and inclined her head toward her slightly. Then, she spoke. "Please give the two lovebirds joint quarters and matching shifts so we don’t have to go through all of that ever again. Other than that, Ronnie’s looking out for me like usual, the only other thing I want is unlimited hot water for a week."

Sam interjected. "Oh, just say yes, Peter. I told you I can build a supplemental heating element with just a few more parts well in time for winter." Bex wearily slow-blinked her gratitude to Sam too.

Lassart held up his hands, any other options clearly removed from the table for him. "That sounds like what we’ll do, then. Good job the last few days, everyone. Corporal…" He wandered over towards Seb and David, setting everyone else free.

Bex sighed wearily and started saying "I’m going to go stash my stuff," but Ronnie interrupted and waved her hands dismissively. She started helping Bex out of the rest of her combat gear and admonished her to let Erik and Chris take care of it, declaring she would supervise. "Heh. God help them, Gunny. Thank you. Someone really needs a bath."

Next to her, Sam scoffed. "Yeah, no kidding. Rufus does too!"

Ouch.

**

To her credit, Sam wasn’t one to disappear and not help after getting in a swipe like that. She took Rufus, his leash, the dog grooming implements, and a full bag of crunchy treats that claimed to have dental benefits, and walked Rufus down to the underpass via an exterior staircase built by the settlement populace, shooing Bex off to get whatever she needed for herself.

By the time Bex retrieved her toiletries and such and met them on a crude bench by the showers, Rufus was getting a belly rub and Sam had rustled up several additional, older and tattered but clean, towels. Bex looked down at Rufus, and openly accused him of treasonous betrayal. To Sam, she said, "I put in all the work to make friends with him… and I get him back here, and one Tupperware of leftovers later, this is what happens?"

Sam grinned up at her. "Oh, Sparky. He just has excellent tastes. He loves his Auntie Sam, yes he does!"

Bex conceded with a wry chuckle. "Okay, meathead. Come on."

Rufus trotted along between them happily enough until seeing the shower curtains, where he balked and started whining. Bex tried to tow him along, but she winced and let out a small cry when something in her wounded arm pulled tight. Sam sighed and shook her head. "Some people’s dogs. It looks like this is going to be a two woman operation."

Bex was a little flustered, but since she already concluded she still felt funny about disrobing entirely in front of Rufus and was going to stay partially dressed — her clothes needed all the help they could get anyway — she concluded her mortification level would probably stay manageable. Sam either seemed of a similar mind or picked up on cues and followed Bex’s example, because after hauling a reluctant Rufus into the stall, she kicked off her shoes and socks, shrugged out of her coveralls and hung them a nail, and left her black t-shirt and briefs on. Bex pretty much did the same thing as last time, sidearm and radio on the bench, boots under, fatigues on another hook. Those were going to need a real scrubbing later… or maybe she could find more and just burn this pair… so her bundle of shower supplies included a set of casual "street" clothes for later.

Rufus eventually accepted his fate, hanging his head morosely while he was thoroughly rinsed, lathered, scrubbed, and rinsed again. Bex decided she was grateful for the help, social awkwardness aside, because getting all fifty-plus pounds of him clean was much easier with three and a half hands. She also appreciated whatever led to the shower stalls being so large — maybe they are just the size of a forklift palette subfloor for easy carpentry? Regardless, it let them wedge him diagonally in the stall as they knelt and squatted on either side of him

She hoped he’d smell all minty fresh / like chamomile tea afterwards, as they’d already killed off a half-full bottle of the settlement’s 'custom spa products'. Sam stood up and turned to get another from the corner, and… a water drop caught Bex's eye as wow it just ran all the way down the back of her thigh and knee and ohmygod look wasn’t Rufus’ fur filthy, how long had it taken to get like this she was so glad he was here now. She gulped and tried to focus her attention away from the distractingly callipygian view (bless the Greeks for their lexical contributions).

They were another third of a bottle in when Bex started to wonder what kind of sorry state her own hair must be in, and if there’d be enough left over to get her cleaned up. Sam must be judging her so hard right now, especially by comparison. The long side of her asymmetric cut really did look cute plastered to the side of her face, just between her ear and the dimple from her big grin as she sweet-talked Rufus, admonishing him that his bath wasn’t nearly as bad as he was acting like it would be.

Bex blinked repeatedly and forced her eyes down to the back of Rufus’ head. What the hell was wrong with her, between whatever that almost was in the boiler room with Seb, and her mind and eyes running away on her now? Was she just that lonely? Had it been long enough since Jaime she was starting to want to feel for someone else? How should that make her feel?

She was really glad she could just keep her mouth shut, temporarily unnoticed while Sam monologued at Rufus. It was his fault she was stuck here feeling like a giddy freshman… if he’d just cooperated! Like he wasn’t already soaking wet out in the rain all day…

Bex visibly jumped when her left hand strayed into Sam’s right on Rufus’ lower back — maybe it was the force of her heart leaping into her throat so fast it had moved the rest of her with it? When she glanced up, her pulse sped up when she realized Sam was already looking at her.

She struggled to find something to say, and Sam’s expression changed to momentary worry. "Sparky? You look like you blew a fuse. Are you alright?" Her eyes flickered over Bex’s face, then down to where their hands were a fraction of an inch apart, then back up to eye contact again. Partial understanding seemed to dawn on her… "Oh Sparks, I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I shouldn’t have just bulldozed in, maybe I was being too familiar?"

Bex could feel the heat of her cheeks blushing, and managed a splashy head shake and a small but emphatic "No! It’s not…"

Sam’s look was questioning when Bex trailed off, but after a pause… "Ohhh." She put her hand squarely on top of Bex’s, and must have noticed the quick intake of breath that caused. Her tone softened. "Sparky… it’s okay. Breathe, honey. I’m only scary when you get yourself hurt. Good, there you go. I think I can tell some of what you’re thinking right now… but it seems like there’s something else. Penny for your thoughts?"

Bex half smiled at the anachronistic adage, and she spoke very softly. "No, Sammie. I’m sorry. I’m such a mess right now, hell, not just right now…" Her eyes dropped away from Sam’s. "I don’t know what’s going on, my emotions are just spinning and you’re… you’re right THERE… and… " Her voice trailed off again, without something to come next in the sentence.

Sam squeezed her hand and her voice took on a slightly stronger note. "Rebecca. Look at me." She waited until Bex looked up and their eyes met again. "You’ve been through all kinds of shit... and you’re just starting to come out of your comfortable armor a little bit. That’s a little scary all on its own, too. And then the last few days… I know it doesn’t feel like it, but pulling through like you did? Honey, the way Ronnie tells it, you have ovaries of fucking stainless steel, and I know my metallurgy. I don’t even know all the details yet and I’m already retroactively scared of you facing all that."

Sam’s thumb stroked the back of Bex’s hand. "It’s natural to reach for comfort when you’re recovering from that kind of fight. You need to feel like you came home to something afterwards." Bex was blinking at her silently, but not looking away, so Sam kept going. "You know I’m quietly open about… well… that I’m open. I don’t care who or what someone is as long as they have a lovely heart and still give a damn these days. You’re top-shelf, cutie." She poked Bex playfully on the tip of her nose with her free hand, then continued. "But you’re still hesitant. I would love to have something with you someday, but absolutely not something you’re not ready for."

Bex smiled slowly at her, wiping back a strand of her own hair that was trickling water into her face. Her voice was a little husky when she spoke. "Thank you Sam, I hope you know how much I appreciate you. And… yeah. Someday… I think that would be nice."

Sam returned the smile and patted her hand. "Back at you, babe. Stop apologizing and blaming yourself, and don’t be afraid to need something. Not recognizing it, or denying it, can make it twist and rot. Not healthy."

"Sam?" Bex’s heart was pounding in her ears.

"Yeah, Sparky? Wha…" The rest of whatever Sam was about to say was muffled by Bex’s lips as she leaned the several inches needed to reach her across Rufus. The kiss was soft, but unhesitating, like the jump from a diving board, and they both froze for a few seconds until Bex leaned back a fraction of an inch. Sam pursued with a short kiss of her own, and then another ambiguously mutual one that they held for a few moments. Even when they broke, they tilted their faces downwards slightly, leaving their foreheads touching.

After, Bex was breathing heavily. Sam… Sam was safe. It could be a limited engagement that wouldn’t spiral catastrophically if it had to be. Way safer than that shit with Seb.

Sam’s eyes were wide and bright, and she touched her lips with a breathy sigh. "Oh my, Sparks. I think we have a new reason for your nickname."

Bex caught herself partway into an apology. "I’m sorr… I mean… Sam, I…"

"Needed that?"

"Yeah. And… wow."

"Mmmmm-hmm." Sam let out a little chuckle and started to speak. "I think…"

Rufus took that opportunity to shake vigorously, spraying water in all directions like an antipersonnel fire hose. Both women fell back with small shrieks of surprise and dismay, but then several seconds of laughter.

Sam tried to pick up where she left off as she gasped to catch her breath. "Oh god, Rufus. You convenient ass. Your timing is impeccable, but your delivery SUCKS." Then, to Bex again… "I think I should probably get Rufus tethered out front and then finish up next door. Before we do something deliciously, enjoyably, stupid."

Bex nodded. "Yeahhhh. Rufus probably has a point." They helped each other stand and Bex’s nerves were already starting to rise again. Maybe Sam could tell, maybe she just predicted it. Either way, she squeezed Bex’s hand in hers. "I’ll see you out front, okay? Don’t freak out. I mean it."

Bex took a deep breath. "Okay. Got it. I’ll be there and I’ll hang onto my marbles until then."

Sam gave her an approving nod and led Rufus out through the curtain. She didn’t avoid talking about feels like Ronnie did, but boy did she know when not to.

The water was still quite warm, but it didn’t stop Bex from getting exquisite little shivers as she peeled off her remaining wet clothes, gave them a few preliminary rinses and squeezes, and then set them aside and tried to scrub out three gunfights, two days, one brawl, and one hangover’s worth of accumulated yuck.

**

Much like Rufus, it took a couple of "wash cycles" for Bex to feel like she wasn’t some kind of battlefield swamp monster anymore. She dressed in new underwear and well-broken-in jeans, with an old comfy tee and a zip-up hoodie. Gathering her things, she nudged the outer curtain aside and smiled at a slightly poofier Rufus and a grinning Sam, who gloated a little. "I told you he loves his Auntie." She rose and stepped around the huge fluffball to give Bex a hug. "Where’s your head at?"

Bex started to reply, but then belatedly noticed the tickle of Sam’s breath behind the "h" across her collarbone. The hair on her arms stood on end and her toes curled involuntarily. "Oh Jesus, Sam. Be careful!"

Sam pulled back in puzzlement, and then ran her fingers along Bex’s goosebumps and giggled. "Oh. Whoops. I’m sorry. Mostly, a little bit. No, that’s unfair. I am sorry."

Bex shivered the goosebumps away and chuckled. "Jeez. You’re like those silver ball things in science class that made people’s hair stick out."

"Hah! Van der Graaf generators? Sure, I can live with that." Sam sat back down on the bench and patted it to get Bex to settle on it. "Did you ever use one?"

Bex shook her head, and Sam continued. "There was a trick to them. If you took your hand off too quickly, they’d zap you. Whatever we are, now and later, don’t hide your feelings from me. We’re both adults and can deal with them better plainly and honestly."

Bex nodded. "Okay. I’ll do my best."

That got an impish smirk. "There is no try."

"Hah, okay, okay Yoda."

Sam took her voice up an octave for a brief impersonation. "Hmmmph!" Then, normally again, "If having a welcome home kiss waiting for you gets you back safe, I can be that. I don’t think Jaime would fault you." She glanced pointedly at his medallion.

Bex chuckled softly. "He’d have adored you. But I don’t think he could have kept up with you."

"Heh. I’m going to be good, and leave that unreplied to. There are two more 'buts' from me though. If you start to fall for someone else… or for me more… I want to know so we can handle it right. Second, I think you need to be careful. You put out a LOT of wattage, and given your track record for handling circuits, well…" She chuckled at Bex’s 'oh not that again' groan, and carried on. "You just need to be careful to not overdo it." She glanced at the base of Bex’s neck. "Heh. I guess maybe I do too."

There might have been a little whimper in Bex’s reply. "Yes. Please!!" Then, when she unconsciously mirrored Sam’s downwards glance, she noticed that Sam’s coveralls were… oh my. Bex couldn’t see anything indecent at all, but the zipper was down around her sternum with nothing hiding quite a few lightly sprinkled freckles.

Sam noticed and scoffed. "Hah. Yes, clearly I do. Eyes up here." She placed one of her hands on Bex’s, and gestured towards the showers with the other. "It’s not like I was expecting any of that to happen." The raised hand went to Bex’s face. "I wasn’t prepared for any of it… but I’m not complaining at all. Now, let’s put our wet stuff away and get you fed and fix that hair, huh? I have a betting pool going on how much Trent is going to feed dogzilla here."

**

So far, Rufus was well on this way to ingratiating himself to the man he’d clearly identified as the main source of table scraps around the place. His new mom and auntie had both put away one bowl of food — Bex having voluntarily selected the same seat from last time. While she worked on a second serving of Trent’s chili (stretching some pre-made stuff with rehydrated bulk stock and their local produce), she contentedly leaned back against Sam’s knees behind her.

When Rhonda joined them, she noticed Bex occasionally reaching up during conversation and putting her hand on Sam’s where it rested on her shoulder, or how Sam would occasionally squeeze a neck muscle rhythmically and make Bex’s eyelids droop. She figured something was clearly up, and wondered exactly what had transpired in the last less-than-an-hour. She made pointed eye contact with Bex, glanced at Sam meaningfully while she was occupied brushing out Bex’s tangled hair, and back to eye contact with Bex again. Bex replied with the tiniest of head shakes, which got a skeptical mouth quirk from Ronnie. To punctuate matters, when Sam put the hairbrush down and leaned forward to wrap her arms around Bex’s neck, resting her cheek against the damp hair, Ronnie kicked Bex’s foot under the table, rather hard.

Bex limited the flinch to just her face, and Sam piped up from her perch. "So… Sarge, what’d you bring me? Where’s my omiyage?"

Ronnie smiled and lifted the soft-sided case from the Black Tusk armory, unzipped it with a sly twinkle at Bex that meant "yes, I did do that specifically so Sam wouldn’t need both hands", and slid it over. Sam shifted her weight and reached to open it with her right hand, but stopped to finger a frayed hole gouged through one corner.

Bex felt Sam move her left hand down to the wounded shoulder and touch it lightly, questioningly, just above the bandage, and replied verbally, "Yeah. Around then. But not because we had it, I swear. Just the same fight."

Sam sighed, and kissed Bex on the back of her head. Oh great, real subtle in front of Ron… ow! Yeah, there’s the kick under the table again. On top of that, when Sam moved her hand back from the wound location, instead of returning it to being casually draped with her forearm across the top of Bex’s shoulder, she wrapped it protectively across Bex with an open palm, and her thumb hooked just a half inch inside Bex’s shirt collar and gliding a light, small caress along the top of her clavicle.

Well, shit. The cat was out of the bag with Ronnie, so Bex sheepishly lifted her hand and rested it on Sam’s. That earned her an eyebrow arch and a "that’s-what-I-thought" smirk from Ronnie. Thank god, she was going to need some of those Black Tusk shin guards if the kicking continued.

She didn’t know what was in the case any more than Sam did — they’d had to wrap up their snatch and grab and leg it before she’d had the chance to investigate. As Sam flipped the lid back, they saw a sci-fi-looking but otherwise pretty straightforward SMG, and what Bex could only think of as a tactical hamster ball, if such a thing were to exist. It had that dull satin not-quite-metallic-but-not-quite-plastic look of fancy composite materials, with faceted sides reminiscent of D&D dice, a central smooth ring bifurcating it into two halves, with at least one camera lens and several LED’s in the ring, bordered by two black strips that looked to be tires. Each of the facets had a little silvery metal circle in the center of it.

Sam set it back in the case and picked up the wrist PDA next to it. After it booted in a setup mode and she added a pin and fingerprints — including those of the other two women — she noticed a "Seeker" app that wasn’t on the other pads they’d captured. When she launched it, the hamster ball twitched and a feed from one of its cameras appeared on the tablet screen. Overlays around the sides indicated things like BATT 92, CAP 0, RANGE 0.1, WEAP LINK OFFL, and a touch screen toggle labeled SAFE/ARM. Sam gave it all a pensive look-over. "Huh."

"Hey, Sammie?" Bex didn’t like the "ARM" switch on a device sitting on a table right in front of her that also came packed with a gun.

"Hmm?" Sam’s thumb on Bex’s collarbone lifted to touch her index finger in acknowledgement.

"We did find that in an armory…"

"Yeah, good point. I’ll see if I can’t RTFM later… outside." She turned off the tablet, and the drone ball "Seeker" thing twitched again and seemed to settle in the case, like its drivetrain went slack. "Seems to me like, once we make sure it’s not going to go all evil robot and kill us, Rufus might end up having a lot of fun with it."

The other two both chuckled, and Bex was reminded of the apparent betting pool. "Speaking of the big mooch, has he eaten us out of house and home yet?"

Ronnie stood and turned to look over Trent’s improvised "diner counter" where they could hear an occasional collar tag tinkle. "It seems he’s earning his keep as a first-stage dishwasher."

Bex looked down at the remnants in her dish with dawning concern. "Oh Jesus. Buddha too. TRENT! If my dog starts farting up a storm, he’s sleeping with you!"

Incoherent dismissive noises came from deeper the kitchen area, which left Bex groaning and the other women laughing.

Ronnie remained standing. "And with that… I think I’m going to go lock my billet down and pass out. Don’t stay up too late, kids."

Bex groaned insolently. "Goodnight, MOM."

Meanwhile, Sam giggled. "G’night, Sarge!"

A minute or two later, she sat up and nudged Bex’s hip with a toe. "Hey Sparky, I know you’re probably exhausted, but could you come up topside with me? There’s something I could use your help with."

Sam was right, Bex’d been running on adrenaline so much over the last few days that she was pretty wiped. But, she figured she could trust Sam’s protective streak and overall judgment enough to assume it was something she could handle even while winding down for the evening.

**

Rufus contentedly followed them outside, looking very satisfied with himself and his people. The quiet click of his nails on the pavement was a pleasant reminder of one big positive thing from the last few days, and the rustle of Sam’s jumpsuit against the spare blanket she’d grabbed from a communal storage area and wrapped around her shoulders was another. As they walked, Sam made little expressive nonverbal sounds — "mm-hmm", "ugh", "buh?", etc. — to encourage Bex’s retelling of the rest of recent events. Given Sam’s calm responses to her descriptions of the most dangerous portions, this seemed to Bex like an ideal opportunity to get them out there and avoid a severe scolding — Sam even seemed entertained by Bex’s retelling of the beatdown she’d laid on Seb.

Eventually they meandered to the area where most of the solar array wiring gathered into a power conversion and storage hub. Did Sam need something while the system was literally "dark"? Or might she be looking for familiar surroundings for a tough conversation? Bex tried to quiet her worries with self-reassurances of how relaxed Sam had seemed all evening. But, when Sam hopped up to sit on the edge of a crate and waved Bex over, a little trickled back in.

She started to ask if everything was okay, but that turned into a "Whoaaaa….. heh" when Sam lay back on the crate and tugged a pinch of Bex’s hoodie gently but implacably to get her to do the same. They both chuckled quietly, and Bex rolled onto her side to face Sam, using her right arm as a pillow. Sam propped her head up on her left hand above her elbow on the crate, and their other hands connected. Both of them glanced up at the sky too, where scattered wispy clouds were side-lit by the moon somewhere off in the distance and stars winked through between them.

Sam spoke after a few seconds of stargazing. "I have to admit fibbing a little. I didn’t need help… but I decided you did."

Bex turned her head back to look at the dim shape of Sam’s face, easier to spot by the contrast framed by her darker hair in the wan light. Sam was consistently pretty clever, but beyond trying to just get her alone again, Bex couldn’t guess what she was up to now. She was nervous about the idea of another kiss, but sure wouldn’t complain if it happened. "I’m confused. With what?"

She saw Sam’s face move as she directed Bex’s attention skyward again, but was quiet for at least a good twenty seconds. "With this."

Bex thought her words over for a minute or two. "You’re right. I haven’t… just looked up and done nothing since… I don’t really even know." She didn’t want to say "since Jaime", and Sam didn’t want her to either right now.

Sam rolled closer to face her again, wrapping herself up in the blanket and huddling against Bex’s side. "I know I'm right. I usually am."

Bex lifted her head, freeing her arm to tuck the edges of the blanket in around Sam for a good seal, and then lay back down again. She contemplated trying for another kiss, but the thought made her nervous, plus she decided that was too much 'wattage' for now. Instead… "I’m still kinda surprised by this… by us, with a lower-case 'u'. Risking sounding full of myself, it sounds like I caught your eye a while ago?"

Sam seemed to consider her reply for a moment. "You could say… that you caught my ear first. Things I overheard you say, things I heard about you doing. Things that led to your stunts today and yesterday. Rushing to help when someone was injured. Repeatedly giving parts of your food and other rations to parents when you first got here and our crops were still coming in…"

Bex chimed in with something of a confession. "A lot of those times… I didn’t have the appetite or the heart for it. I wouldn’t have eaten the food or used the supplies or whatever."

Sam shifted, and her response was laden with challenge. "Did you sit there staring at your food for an hour and then throw it away? We both know you DID something with it, and that’s the point. Things like…" Sam twitched the edge of the blanket. "Things like this. You don’t not help people. But… like with Rufus. You weren’t ready, so I was patient." Bex seemed to be processing things slower with her fatigue and all, but it also meant she wasn’t discounting what Sam was saying out of habit again. Sam shifted closer to nuzzle her forehead and nose against Bex’s cheek and downshifted to murmuring softly. "When’re you going to finally believe you’re good peeps, Rebecca?"

Bex fumbled for an answer. "When it’s good enough, I guess?"

Sam made a quietly disgruntled noise and then whispered right in her ear, "It’s good enough for me, you dummy," before settling deeper into the blanket again.

Bex had no answer to that other than to turn her face a smidge to be closer to Sam. She listened to Sam’s quiet breathing, an owl hooting off in the distance, and Rufus occasionally jingling his collar with a scratch or lick below their feet. Once again, Sam was right. Just then, everything was good enough.

**

The following several days were about as idyllic as you could get while trying to blow fresh life into the dim coals of civilization. Bex got some range time in with Felicia under Ronnie’s expert instruction. Seb would wave in passing between one debriefing or map review and another. Felicia stood her first watch with them, and it felt AMAZING.

Bex found multiple notes on her bunk, or in her pockets, or even tucked into Rufus’ collar addressed to 'Bex(oxo)' or 'Rebecca’ if they weren’t to "Sparks" or 'Sparky', signed by 'Samantha Rose', ’S.R.', or a small lightning bolt symbol. (She wondered if there was a hint there, and made a mental note to try 'Rosie' on for size in some private moment.)

There was a nice sprinkling of those — private moments — too. Shared meals, Rufus durability testing the Seeker sphere-bot thing, elbow contact during group conversations, little nuzzles or stolen heart-speeding kisses. There was frequently a tingly undercurrent of desire, but they (with a lower-case ’t’) really were based on comfort, company, reminders of presence. Little happy moments to use as lighthouses throughout the day-to-day.

They were fairly low key about it all, until the day their schedules and activities simply didn’t align. The next morning in the mess hall, Ronnie’s eyes only gave her a moment’s warning before Sam struck, turning to face Bex after a high-speed approach from behind, stood on tiptoes, placed her left hand on Bex’s waist and her right firmly at the back of her neck, and pulled her lips to hers for several seconds in front of nearly a dozen people.

Ronnie told Bex later that the increase in cheering volume partway through was because Sam lifted a foot and pointed her toes behind her, but all Bex remembered was her burning cheeks and being left speechless when Sam said loud enough for only her to hear, "I get daily smooches or this is what happens", then backed away biting the corner of her lower lip with mischief dancing in her eyes.

Ronnie also informed Bex that afternoon she wholeheartedly approved and was happy to see her having a little fun and interactions that didn’t involve gunfire or underground brawls. Fight Club references were made.

**

Conversation topics took a more serious note a few days after that. Serious, but not scary. Bex and Sam were getting some 'femme fatale' time in on the improvised range along one of the frontage roads parallel to the underpass. Felicia’s better scope had a higher magnification and wider range of adjustable zoom, and Bex was still getting accustomed to it, along with the ability to place follow up shots on target so much faster with the semiautomatic feed instead of bolt action. In a pinch, she could even indulge in three-round bursts, but that’s not really what the rifle had been built for.

Sam was getting acquainted with the new space-gun looking SMG. (Clearly, the Black Tusk armorers had a theme going.) It had an absurd rate of fire and could empty a 30 round magazine in seconds if Sam held the trigger down that long. It wasn’t the most practical firearm in scarce times, but Bex was comforted by the thought of how withering a barrage Sam could lay down if a threat got close to her.

In general, it seemed to be meant for putting short bursts out before the recoil could be felt through the quirky dampening system that somehow directed the kick through a weighted buffer on a vertical track built into a chunky 'belly' in front of the main handgrip. It had a little holosight on top like Ronnie’s P90, but it also had a bulkier than usual laser to the right of the muzzle. Ronnie had said it wasn’t just a visual aim point, but was actually a target painter, usually seen on rifles to guide precision strikes.

Sam had figured out it worked with the unique 4-way thumb stick mounted on the left side of the gun, to send the seeker ball hurling at a target far quicker than it would move under manual control from the tablet. The drone could even path around obstacles as long as it could "see" the destination when it started moving. Sam experimented with setting it down on the table in front of her and lasing a tall target behind a crate, and it would dash off the table to ground level, zip around the crate, and then re-acquire the dot and thunk against the bottom of the target a moment later.

After they played with that for a while, Bex settled into poking holes in a target 200 yards out while Sam started warming up with some single-round fire. Bex noticed her grow less conversational as she went on, experimenting with bursts and a feel for when the recoil would 'make it through' the damping system, but she just thought Sam was progressively 'getting in the zone'.

That changed as she finished a magazine and removed the empty, and realized when she started to reach for another that Sam’s latest gap in fire was not from stuffing fresh rounds into empty mags like she assumed. Instead, her quasi-official sweetheart, friend-with-benefits, cuddle buddy… whatever label they were so carefully avoiding for the moment, was actually leaning on the table watching her with a pensive furrow in her brow.

That was worrisome, so she left Felicia’s bolt locked back and set her down. When she stood up and removed her eye and ear protection, Sam didn’t approach, so Bex went over to her instead, took her hand, and borrowed a familiar phrase. "Sammie… penny for your thoughts?"

The furrow eased a little and there was a hint of a smile, but Sam’s eyes were still... deep. That wasn’t one of the usual adjectives, so Bex still looked into them questioningly. Sam took a deep breath.

"Hi Sparky. I was just thinking about… my threats to your health about your own safety aside, I’ve never had to make the immediate decision to hurt or kill someone before. I mean, yeah, I help with the defensive traps, or make sure you rough n’ tumble types are good to go. But it’s never on me if some dope tries to break in and come after us, or you and Ronnie see everything you need to make the tough call in the moment. It scares me a little."

That got a sympathetic nod, and Bex leaned on the table next to her. "Congrats on being human, babe. It’s not an easy thing."

Sam picked up where she left off. "Like, I’m not scared I’ll freeze up or not do what needs to be, when everything is on the line. But I’m scared what it’ll do to me, of what’s across that line. And, I know you’ve done it when you needed to act first, couldn’t wait to see what someone did… just what they were starting to do. But watching you practice, I realize I’ve never had to watch you do it. I worry it’ll change what I think about you, how… how I feel about you, if I do."

Bex tightened her hand-hold briefly. "I sure hope it doesn’t. But these days, you and Ronnie seem to know me the best as anyone. The two of you know… hell, you seem to tell me pretty accurately, how I work and why I do things. And Ronnie wouldn’t let me go rogue and hurt people for the wrong reasons. You’ve got more faith in me than I do, y’know? I… trust your trust in me, I guess."

Something in there seemed to reassure Sam, because that got a little more of a smile and a small ocular glint of affection. Her voice was still a smidge quieter than usual though. "How do you and Ronnie do it?"

"Well… I wouldn’t want to say Ronnie 'has it easy' because of how she got there, but she has years of training, and then years of experience. Even when her hands were tied by rules of engagement… being a step ahead of people saved lives… hopefully. Not as often as she would have wanted. There’s a lot that’s more her story to tell, but she has more ghosts than I do. I think it’s why she looks after me, I know it’s why she’s good at it. Me…"

Her voice and face went distant, and Sam jumped in. "Hey, I’m sorry. If it hurts too much to go down that road…"

Bex squeezed her hand again. "Pretending it isn’t there doesn’t make it go away. Ronnie’s taught me that. And like she does, if the lessons I’ve learned the hard way can help someone else… Ha. You’re the one who told me I 'don’t not help people', right?"

That elicited a little chuckle. "I’m glad you were paying attention, but Ronnie is going to be soooo mad when she finds out you listened to me the first time."

Bex feigned hurt and betrayal. "When she finds out, not if? I thought you liked me. Why would you get me in trouble? Also, wait a minute. How do you know about that? Are you two conspiring against me?!?"

That upgraded Sam’s chuckle to a gentle laugh. "It’s for your own good. Usually. Also, I distinctly remember a time I told you not to be afraid of your feelings and you listened the first time." Sam pointedly looked off towards the shower structure at the other side of the underpass from them with just the hint of a frisky grin.

"Hah. I see how it is. Anyway." She shifted so their forearms intertwined above their handhold, maybe to steady herself to continue. "I mean… yeah, things got darker when all this shit started. But that’s macro scale. You can conceptualize it rationally, but your psyche can’t really take it all in. At least not if you’re not right in the heart of it. Ronnie told me Jaime wasn’t just protecting me from all of that. She said he was literally saving me. From then, for now." She let out a long sigh.

Sam pulled her closer. "Hey. I’m thankful he did." Her voice was much softer than when she’d been teasing Bex a few moments before.

A small amused, affectionate grunt acknowledged the sentiment. "That insulation was ripped away when I heard the first gunshot. My world got darker that day, in two ways. I lost his light… and it became ok to kill someone. Some of it was trying to save him, obviously." Bex’s voice cracked a little, and Sam ran a hand over her back. "But looking back, I think some part of me knew I couldn’t. That part turned into darkness coming from inside me, not externally, and it came roaring out screaming for blood. You know that most of the time I fired that other goddamned gun, I was pouring my hate through it, the hate of what happened, into it and at who I was shooting." She sighed. "I don’t know how much of that makes sense. But… hate is consumptive, it’s sneaky. I didn’t have to shoot Jaime’s brother, you know. He totally… had it coming. But I could have tried to disengage, to leave. His gun wasn’t pointed at me when I fired."

Sam started to protest, but she waved her off. "Don’t worry. I’m not what-if’ing myself into a hole. Just making a point. When I shot that Black Tusk guy — not Seb during the fight, but after that, the other one… I just did it. Totally nonchalantly, to shut his ass up and because we needed to find Chris and Pat. So the act — doing it — can be justified, as can the reasons…why I did… but how I did is a little scary. Nobody likes seeing their inner monster come out, you know? At least… they shouldn’t."

Sam’s eyes were filled with sympathetic heartbreak as Bex continued. "So I needed Ronnie to help pull me back a little. I needed Rufus, I needed you, to put a little spark of joy back in. But the day I lost Jaime… it taught me, not just rationally, but to my core, that there are monsters, some in everyone… and some people let themselves be ruled by them."

Bex sighed and looked off into the distance. "And, when you run into that, sometimes you have to let yours out to be bigger or faster, before they can get you. It reminds me of Rufus and The Hulk a bit, I think. Sometimes you need to let the Big Guy out, but then it has to go back to its den, hopefully willingly so you have better control over it and then it’s actually stronger instead of always fighting with yourself. And when nothing’s been threatening, that source of strength, of action, can hopefully rest, feed, play, heal." Bex was really surprised she wasn’t crying at this point, and leaned into Sam, looking down at the pavement. "To be honest… I hope you never have to open that door."

"Are you trying to coddle me?" Crap. Trick question. Roll for diplomacy skill check.

"Uh… yeah, a little, but not because I doubt you. Some of it is selfish too. I’m probably more dependent on you and Ronnie than ideal, but 'sub-optimal' is still 'functional', and… well, you ground me, Sammie."

"Oh, Sparks, you know I love it when you talk electrical to me." She let out a little laugh that trailed off into a sigh, and they made eye contact again. "Thank you for indulging me, though. I don’t want to talk about his anymore. Let’s see what’s behind the safe/arm switch on this thing, and then can we go snorgle Rufus please?"

**

They did both. The sphere had a proximity safety that would let it arm, but not do whatever it did, within about twenty feet of the PDA controlling it. It said as much on the screen, and the red light on the gun-mounted thumb stick blinked irritatedly until they sent it squirreling off downrange. Once that happened, a lightning bolt icon on the touchscreen turned live instead of grey, and the thumbstick light went solid. Clicking the stick left or right seemed to disarm or arm the device. Down recalled it, and up sent it off towards the laser’s aim point. Sam gave Bex a look that managed both apprehension and enthusiasm, and then pushed "in" on the thumb stick like it was a simple button, or a video game controller.

Both of them jumped when a storm of electrical arcs fountained from the orb with a sustained, roaring, crackling furious buzzing. The ends formed a rough sphere, except where there was a conductive material nearby, which they tended to flail towards and reach for… like a metal railing and an abandoned sedan. The hapless car’s alarm blared briefly and the lights flickered erratically before the alarm was choked off by static and the whole vehicle went dark.

The sharp tang of ozone reached them as Sam blinked twice and lowered her eyebrows. "Well. That was mildly terrifying." Profanity echoed in the distance, and she turned and waved cheerfully to the nearest watchtower on the bridge. "We’re all fine here, how are you?"

The distant figures shook their heads and turned away, and she faced Bex again with a pout on her face. "It was a boring conversation anyway. Can haz fuzz therapy?"

Bex chuckled. "Speaking of fuzz. I think that thing just stole my nickname, and your comparison to a Van der Graaf thingy."

They packed up their gear and went in search of Rufus, who they found lounging on a crate near Patrick’s team while they futzed with some irrigation pipes. He was posed like the Sphinx in Egypt, paws out straight while he held his nose (Dog: 1, Sphinx: 0) high, sampling the scents wafting by. Pat waved, and joked about how it was nice to have such a dedicated supervisor.

Bex laughed. "Yeah. He really hates to actually get his own paws wet. Trust us."

Sam tried to cover her small choking noise with clearing her throat and calling to the dog. "Ahem. Rufus! Hey boy!"

He looked over and wagged his tail, which rapidly beat out a drum tattoo on the wooden box when she produced a tennis ball from her messenger bag. A clean, unslobbered, bright yellow, pre-apocalypse condition tennis ball. Where the hell? "Look what Auntie Sam has for you! Wanna come play fetch?"

Bex gaped at her. "You minx! Are you trying to steal my dog?"

Sam laughed at her as she backed away and Rufus hopped down to follow. "What did I tell you like a week ago? There is no try!"

Bex had to admit that was a pretty good response to her initial allusion to their little… encounter bathing Rufus that first night home. That was no excuse for dognapping though! She huffed off to follow indignantly, waving to Pat and leaving him and his colleagues to provide the live studio audience laugh track for this episode of the Rebecca and Samantha show.

Playing with Rufus quickly became a community activity over his first few weeks in his new home, stimulating his growing comfort with other residents. Dog and human alike developed a system where at least two humans would toss a ball towards the general vicinity of each other, Rufus would gallop in pursuit, depositing it -- slightly damper -- in front of whoever he was nearest to. Many bystanders were pulled into games this way, as he did not distinguish between them and existing participants. Even Peter Lassart proved susceptible to the enthusiastic tail wagging and hopeful panting grin.

It was during one of those self-perpetuating play sessions that a volley of comms traffic and the grumble of truck engines announced the arrival of a larger than usual convoy of friendly military and municipal government vehicles. Everyone had been expecting them after David put the word out about Black Tusk — shot callers from various pockets of surviving efficacy all wanted to come see some of the hardware firsthand (a few subsequent well-escorted salvage trips had gone out to both firefight locations), and to review intel in person. Thus, Bex, Sam, Pat, and a couple of other residents kept playing with Rufus while Ronnie went to go talk shop.

Surprisingly, she was back in less than fifteen minutes, waving a few folded pieces of paper as she approached. "Mail call, kiddo!"

Bex was surprised, and lobbed the ball to Pat. Sam gravitated over and they all sat against the overpass guardrail while Bex started to read aloud.

_"Dearest Rebecca,_

_Leonard and I really hope you’re doing well at that overpass place. One of the drivers in this group says he remembered seeing you there a month ago, and I begged their leader to delay their departure just long enough for me to send this with them._

_Things are decent here, you know, considering. The crops are taking well and we’ve even had some luck with a few fruit trees. Leonard has some ideas to use our composting to enrich the surrounding soil at the outer edges of the development plot, where there doesn’t look to have been much vehicle traffic or construction work, so we might not have to bring in so much every time we build a new planter._

_We’ve only had a few problems with would-be looters, going medieval and tossing cinder blocks and rubble at them from six stories up works pretty darned well! We’re worried about these new guys you apparently ran into, that the army types are coming to see you about, though. We don’t have anything that’ll stand up to professionals, but hopefully that means we’re too small to waste time on if they really are just passing through?_

_We’ve had a handful of individuals and three new families join us. I thought you’d love to hear that we used your car to help move in a family with a handicapped son. Now he can go anywhere he wants on the fifth floor in his wheelchair. It’s so much safer than them living on their own, and gives him a ton of space to roam. It took a while to make the subsequent trips for their belongings because of how slowly the solar and inverter setup charges your car, but we were able to get most of their stuff within a week or so. It’s really helpful having transportation that won’t use up our gas reserves when something like this comes up, thank you for leaving it with us. I couldn’t stop crying when he saw all of his books and toys after making his first lap of the whole floor. Leonard and I thought you and Jaime, bless him, would approve of your garden making him and his parents so happy. He told them a little about the two of you, and the boy drew a picture of you holding hands with his crayons and left it at the memorial, without telling anyone. Lord above, talk about bringing on the waterworks when I found it tending the plants."_

Bex had to stop reading for several minutes at that part, crying quietly into Sam’s shoulder while she and Ronnie rubbed her back tenderly. Even Rufus noticed something was wrong and came over to lick her hand worriedly. All that outpouring of love helped her slow her tears, and she thought she caught a mischievous twinkle in Sam’s eyes when she noticed Bex noticing the Celtic knot work tattoo running upwards from the right side of her waist when Sam dabbed at her tears with the uplifted hem of her t-shirt. Sam kissed the tip of her nose and shifted out of the way when Bex lifted the letter again.

_"… We really miss you and would love to introduce you to everyone. Do you want to come back? We still have our spare room, there’s even carpet and curtains now, though, don’t tell Leonard but… I’m a few weeks late. I’m sure we could still figure out a place for Auntie Rebecca, should we be blessed with the challenge I think… I hope is coming. (A few of the parents want to try turning one apartment on the fifth floor into a little schoolroom, I guess we’d better get on that!)_

_If nothing else, please let your leadership know we’d love to start up some kind of contact and trade. We all have to stick together, right? Rising tide raises all ships, and such. (We hear you have chickens?!?)_

_These fellows say they’ll be heading back this way in a few days, but even if this misses you until after that, they could still bring a letter or even relay a message between different patrols by radio later on._

_All else aside, we truly hope you found some of the peace you’ve been searching for. Please write us if you can, especially if you need anything. We’re here with open arms._

_Love,_

_Allie and Leonard."_

Sam watched her with a small quiet smile, and Ronnie patted her shoulder encouragingly while Bex leaned down to tousle Rufus’ ears and bump her forehead against the big lug’s. After that, she made sure to hug both of her bipedal friends and thank them for their support, and folded up the letter to pocket it. Sure was a lot to process in there. Maybe she could get Christine to work on Lassart about the trade possibilities. Even now that her dealings with him were greatly simplified, the thought of trying to get him to see things differently from however he initially would was thoroughly unappealing. Plus, he was probably still miffed about her little briefing stunt. Better not to taint a perfectly reasonable suggestion with that resentment.

She must have missed Ronnie excuse herself and depart, because when she looked up from doting pensively on Rufus, it was just Sam there watching her. "You’re awfully quiet, Sparks. What’s up?"

Bex tried to blink and shake away the cobwebs. "Sorry. Just… it’s all very out-of-left-field, and I’m trying to figure out what to do, how to get my head around it, is all."

"Mmm. Well, listen, Ronnie said some of their techie types want to have a look at Thor’s hamster ball, so…"

"Oh, right, sorry that I zoned out there for a minute. I’m going to ask Pat if he knows where Chris is…"

"Oh… okay. I guess I’ll see you later then. Dinner at Trent’s?"

"Right. Like there’s anywhere else, huh?" Bex waved as she started off in the direction Pat had gone after Rufus stopped playing.

Sam looked down at Rufus, who tilted his head, ball at his feet. "Yeah, where else is there indeed, huh, boy?"

Rufus wasn’t sure which one of them to follow, so he stayed right where the ball was and waited for someone to come along and throw it.

**

Ronnie brought David to their table that night, and they both had news to share. Their guests would be staying another few days, particularly because there had previously been several earlier scattered reports and sightings that sounded like the same organization. By way of 'flipping' Seb, capturing a sizable amount of their gear, and winning two engagements with their forces, the Broadway folks had confirmed the group’s identity and gathered the largest intel haul to date.

The visitors would be setting up a small operational camp / motor pool in a parking lot just outside the east gate — Broadway had already been preparing it as a layover for the other occasional caravans. Their folks who were off duty would be setting up sleeping arrangements sheltered under the bridge, except for a few specialists who were squeezing in to the larger of the interior residential spaces to be as close as possible to their local counterparts. There was also talk of stationing two to three personnel onsite long term to help with security and collaboration. Rufus was unsurprisingly popular, trading morale benefits for productivity slowdowns in his vicinity.

Ronnie and David did most of the talking during the evening, with Bex and Sam mostly only chiming in with the occasional question. Everyone hung around for a while when Trent’s transitioned from a diner role to its evening bar identity, and while both young women were comfortable in the current-and-former-military-dense environment, the conversations gradually became more unintentionally foreign feeling, and the two of them were tired.

As they were preparing to exit, Sam caught Rebecca’s arm. "Hey, Sparky. It’s okay if you don't want to, but… I was kind of hoping you might stay with me tonight? I’m not… trying to get frisky on you, but would really like you to be there."

Bex was surprised, but smiled. "Oh! Uh... of course. That sounds nice."

Oddly, Sam seemed more relieved than excited. "Okay. How about I take Rufus topside for a bedtime pee, and you can get whatever you need?"

**

Sam’s workshop was in the same underground set of rooms as the mess, Lassart’s, and a number of the other shared sleeping chambers. Rebecca arrived feeling like a kid going to a slumber party, with a change of clothes in a day pack and her bedroll and pillow lashed to that loosely. Sam called for her to enter after a light knock, and Rebecca closed the door behind her as gently as she could.

Rufus was working on a rawhide treat near the door, but his pace was definitely winding down. Several glowing power indicators faintly illuminated a workbench along the right wall, and she could make out the shadowy edges of one of Broadway’s handful of functioning laptops, a soldering station, and an assortment of test equipment like Sam’s multimeter and an oscilloscope.

The middle third or so of the room was occupied by a wooden project table, with power cables draped down from above in orderly bundles. One of those lines must have been feeding the battery charger blinking away in the dark. The left wall was concealed by a row of storage cabinets and stacks of heavy duty tote bins until the rear corner, where two whiteboards gave Sam some brainstorming space, though the writing was illegible in the low light.

The only significant illumination was spilling through an opening in the fabric screening off the rear of the room, from the edge of the whiteboard to the right wall, as private space. Appropriately, Bex noticed it hung from repurposed electrical conduit as she made her way past the faintly ticking battery charger.

She poked her head through the drapes with a quiet "Knock knock!” and found Sam facing away from her, shaking a sleeping bag out across the floor, wearing loose blue pajama shorts and a grey tank top that probably ended just below her navel. As Bex looked around the rest of the space, she noticed the delightfully squishy carpet and kicked her shoes off, nudging them back onto the concrete floor. She was enjoying wiggling her toes in it briefly when Sam stood back up and turned to face her.

"Hey. I didn’t think that was going to work…" (Sam gestured to a half-folded cot tilted up against the wall.) "So I tried to make a little room."

Bex spotted a comfortable looking armchair that seemed to have been pushed back, holding one side of the curtains out in a bulge, but leaving a few more feet between it and the furniture along the wall. The pile of textbooks, notepads, and novels occupying the seat seemed like they’d been recently stacked there, probably from the carpet indentations next to the chair and cot’s original positions.

The mild lighting came from the lower half of one of those standing torchiere lamps that were pretty much standard issue in college town apartments, this one apparently an upgraded model with a flex-necked reading lamp shining a cone of light downwards. Some of its rays spilled across a dark wooden dresser with an oval mirror and jewelry box on top. All in all, the warm colors of the curtain, chair, and carpet paired nicely with the physical comforts Sam had arrayed to give the little nook a very cozy, homelike feel.

Bex shrugged off her pack and propped it against the chair, shedding and draping her zip-up hoodie (with radio and pistol as always) over it. That left her in navy sweatpants with a hole in the right knee and, unintentionally, the same loose light racerback top she wore in Jaime’s sketch.

As Bex leaned over for a quick, initially timid kiss hello, her fingertips inadvertently strayed across the stretch of exposed waist below Sam’s tank top, and Bex realized she could feel the small dimples at the base of Sam’s back. Her hand lingered, and she was willing to bet her eyes dilated further than the darkness alone required and that her pulse briefly quickened, but Sam apparently didn’t notice.

As they got settled, Bex realized that seemed to be a bit of a pattern the last hour or two — a series of small signals of attraction and affection being missed. This began to worry her, as they’d been so very in sync on those in the preceding weeks, so when they’d finished making a little nest and she sat sideways next to Sam, she thought she’d better speak up. "Sam, honey, did I do something wrong?"

Sam blinked a couple of times and opened her mouth, but seemed to search for the right words as her eyes looked down and flickered laterally a few times.

(Shit, that’s a yes.)

Sam spoke after a few seconds, but slowly. "I… I think what I want to ask you… is if you’re leaving."

It took Bex a second to unpack the meaning. "Huh? Leaving y… Ohh. Oh. Crap. I’m sorry. Have you been worrying since the letter? I’m an ass. I totally missed it."

Sam shook her head. "It blindsided you too, I don’t blame you. But, you know. Like I was saying, if things were gonna change, I’d want to know. We promised."

Bex nodded, then took the hand Sam didn’t have her weight propped up on and kissed the back of her knuckles. " I remember. But… Sam… if I went back, I’d want to introduce you and Ronnie to them. You’re my family these days."

"Oh." Sam seemed partially comforted, but unsure. "What if you stayed?"

"You mean stayed there? Left Broadway and moved? I’d ask if you wanted to go." Bex let go of Sam’s hand and brushed her fingertips across Sam’s cheek.

"Would you ask me to go with you?"

"What… oh. Yeah, I see the difference there." She paused and sighed, but immediately regretted it when a note of renewed worry leapt to Sam’s face. "Nonono… I didn’t hesitate why you think I did. Bear with me. I just figure I’m going to mess this part up — apparently I just did and now I’m babbling. Argh. Yes. Yes I would want you to come with me, and I would ask you to. This kinda precipitates the conversation early, but yes, I do want you involved in my life. More officially involved. But you know me well, and if there’s some reason you think we shouldn’t…"

Sam lunged. Maybe pounced. But it felt to Bex more like a lunge, even though one could still say she took Bex down like a wounded gazelle. Either way, Sam knocked Bex onto her back and was a quarter of the way on top of her, and managed to murmur between assertive kisses, "Shut up, dummy."

Sam’s aggressive endorsement of capitalizing 'Us' and 'Them' lasted a good few minutes and left Bex’s hair feeling distinctly rumpled. Eventually Sam sat back to talking distance, but still hovered over Bex, with a hand propping her up again.

"God. Right when I think you’re smarter than a boy because you get why you’re supposed to ask someone to go with you when you leave, and then you go and start backtracking right when you’re saying what I hope you will."

Bex chuckled softly. "Sorry. They’re all I have as examples. Do I get credit for not repeating the worst of their mistakes?"

"Senior year, picking out colleges or whatever, huh?"

"Yup. I wanted him to ask me to apply to the same schools he did. It would have been a terrible idea, but he was supposed to ask!"

"Yeah, same. Okay, you’re off the hook. I just… didn’t want to lose you and didn’t want to rush you."

Bex reached up to tuck some stray hair behind Sam’s ear. "I get it. I feel bad for worrying you, but I’ll also avoid blaming myself more, because I know you’ll scold me."

"Heh. Clever girl gets more kisses."

A couple of minutes later, Sam was toying with the chain around Bex’s neck. "You said the original chain broke and was lost, huh?"

"Yeah. I felt awful, but I don’t even really know how it broke or when I lost it afterwards. This has been functional at least, it’s what I could find."

"Stay here." Sam stood up and went the few steps to her dresser. Bex heard quiet tinkling from the jewelry box, and then Sam returned and sat beside her again. "Here, put it on this?" Bex started to reach for the solid looking coppery gold chain Sam was holding out. "It was my grandmother’s, just like my middle name. Rose, rose gold, you know?"

Bex froze, her hand still in midair. "Sam… I can’t take something that was…"

Iron glinted in Sam’s blue-grey eyes. "Shut your hole. If you don’t leave, and I have you, and you have it, it’s not gone, now is it?"

Bex yielded in the face of inexorable determination, and carefully lifted the chain from Sam’s fingers. "Okay, but if something happens to it, I’m going to feel like utter and absolute shit."

Sam shrugged from where she sat next to Bex, who was sliding the amulet from one chain to the other. "Okay. I’ll allow you that much self-flagellation."

"You’re so reasonable. Here, what do you think?" Bex held the gold chain up, and Sam fastened it around Bex’s neck for her.

The new (new-old) chain was a few inches longer, and the weight of the pendant pulled it down into the first inch of moderate décolletage revealed by the scoop neck of Bex’s top. Sam chuckled. "I think I like the view. But seriously, is it too long? Is it going to bother you?"

Bex clamped a hand to her chest. "No takebacksies! Tricksy hobbit! Okay but seriously. I’ve only had it on for like twenty seconds, and I think I like the idea of having him and you closer to my heart. Literally."

Sam’s eyes went a little serious. "Rebecca… I’m not trying to replace him. You know that, right?"

Bex nodded. "No one can, but it’s not a zero-sum game. I admit that I’m not whole, that you’re bandaging wounds, but that’s protecting me while they heal. You’re not filling a hole, you’re adding good stuff."

Sam relaxed and laid her head down on Bex’s lower ribcage. "There’s something else too. 'Bex'… you said he was the first one to call you that. That’s his name for you, I feel like I’m intruding, or stealing it, and I don’t like that feeling. I kinda want to have my own."

"Okay." She rested her hand on Sam’s forearm. "Is there something else you have in mind? You could do Rebecca and Sparks or Sparky…"

"Nah. I don’t ALWAYS want to be poking fun at you every time I use a term of endearment. I’ve been thinking about your middle name too. Marie. Rebecca Marie. I really like the way they sound together. What do you think of 'Remy'?"

"Wellll… M-Y, or M-M-I-E?"

"Dealer’s choice."

"I’m just kidding, I’m good with either… as long as I get to call you 'Rosie' sometimes?"

Sam scoffed loudly. "Fucking finally. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for you to figure that out?"

"Hah. I’m sorry I’ve been so distracted."

Sam shifted her head to look over at her and rolled her eyes teasingly. "Terrible. Just terrible. Hey Remy… d’you wanna be my girlfriend?"

"Hell yeah, Rosie."

"Mmm. Good answer." Sam sat up and strained to reach the light switch without standing, and her tank top rode up and revealed her tattoo again. Rebecca reached to trace it with her fingertips, and followed it up Sam’s side. This caused Sam to fall over with a squeak, and Rebecca caught her and pounced (not lunged, because she was attacking from a low position herself).

Turns out the tattoo went all the way up Sam’s side and then made a turn to her scapula. The pendant on the longer chain tumbled back and forth to rest on one of them or the other until Rebecca reached the light switch with her longer arm and they braided themselves together for the night.

**

Rebecca woke once in the middle of the night wrapped in someone else’s warm presence for the first time since the day Jaime was killed. Maybe 'Rosie' had shifted or said something in her sleep, or someone had closed a door outside. All she heard now was background ambient sounds and soft little snores from Sam, no louder than a child might make. Sam was nestled up under her arm, head on Bex’s shoulder as if it were a pillow. That left Sam’s surprisingly deep red hair just below Rebecca’s cheek, and it was a simple matter to kiss her on the head and take a long inhale of the chamomile and mint that, really, anyone’s hair in the complex would probably smell like. But, she realized, wondering if she was imagining, that Sam’s hair and her bedding also carried the faintest hint of… cinnamon? (How did that work??)

She regretted not being able to recall Jaime’s scent, though she was sure even the slightest whiff would have brought it all crashing back. Though, given their relative heights, she was probably the midnight bouquet of that relationship. Hibiscus or jasmine usually, for the record.

She spent some time just soaking in the peacefulness that had been so long in coming, tears of relief brimming her half-open eyes. God, she knew she missed it, but didn’t realize quite how badly until she had a taste again. Just 'sleeping' with someone earlier wouldn’t have brought that tranquility… just a brief release and a whole lot of regret and guilt.

They both had that creative cleverness, and careful tenderness when she was vulnerable, but so many differences too — anatomical aside. Jaime always seemed to be striving to do better every day than the one before, even seeking to one-up his own efforts to please her. Sam… tonight’s anxiety about losing her was the only glimpse Bex had seen of a crack in her otherwise seemingly boundless drive and momentum. His art captured the essences of a moment or subject in an enduring record, but her talents were in making complex constructs that would do things to the reality around them. Kind of an interesting opposition, though they were both marvelous. That. That was a similarity between them too. Unexpected surprises that intersected her life, converging vectors merging courses with hers into an entirely new one.

She even put a little thought into how different she herself was when entering each relationship, but soon realized there were so many external variables it was an exercise for the ages.

But, it was pretty easy to conclude that even if Jaime and Sam were so radically different to never have bonded with each other, they’d at least both approve of the other simply because of how much affection and care they poured into her. That thought made it easy to shift her awareness back, solely to the direct present she was experiencing. Her lovely dope of a dog sleeping by the door, the brilliant, compassionate, thoughtful wonderful person at her side, how cozy it was between the two sleeping bags above and below them…

**

Next thing Bex knew, she awoke with her heart racing as Sam was halfway through planting a line of slow lingering kisses down from behind her ear to her collarbone. A wordless gasp preceded functional speech, which prompted a very self-satisfied chortle from below her right ear.

"Wha... Whoa, Sam! Rosie… Jesus, what a way to wake up."

Red hair at the edge of Bex’s peripheral vision shifted as the little trickster lifted her head and looked at her. "Good morning, sleepyhead. That should give you something nice to think about for the day."

Rebecca’s breathing slowed as she woke the rest of the way up and her physiological responses were filtered through proper cognitive processes again. "Gods above and below, Rosie. How am I supposed to think about anything else?" (After a moment’s reflection, she decided she liked how 'Rosie' sounded and felt to say.)

The only response she got was a playful shrug and a smile of lackadaisically feigned innocence. Anything further was interrupted by a knock on the workshop door.

Rebecca thought they must have looked like panicked teenagers hearing a parent’s car in the driveway. Sam looked at her wide-eyed. "Shit! Did you lock the door last night?"

Rebecca returned her whisper. "No! It’s your door! Do something before Rufus wakes up!"

Sam sat up, clutching the sleeping bag, and called out at a higher volume. "Who is it?"

Ronnie’s voice identified herself through the door. Sam swore again and scrambled to the dresser, where she shed her shorts, shimmied into a pair of stonewashed blue jeans, and pulled on a simple black bralette before snatching her tank top from the armchair and yanking it over her head hastily. Rebecca had never had a full view of her so undressed down to just a single piece of underwear, and it took a moment to tear her eyes away from the long curves and recurves of her legs and waist, the muscles flanking her lower spine, and the scrollwork of the tattoo climbing her side. She had a passing urge to run her fingers over every one of the scattered freckles on Sam’s back, identifying the muscles beneath from memory of her classes, but remembered the imminent mortification at the door when they disappeared from view.

Sam winked at her in the mirror (busted!) as she hastily ran her hands through her hair to get it going in generally the right direction, then stepped out through the curtain. Bex heard her invite Ronnie in, and then a moment later, "G’morning Sarge. Sorry about that, I was still getting presentable. What’s up?"

Ronnie’s reply in her smooth warm voice carried through the curtain. "Hey, morning, Sammie. I was just wondering if you’d… huh." Toenails clicked on the floor. Shit! "Oh, hello Rufus." Ronnie’s voice increased in volume. "I was just looking for Bex. She wasn’t at her bunk, and her sleeping pad and bag were gone, along with her radio and pistol, which’re always with her. If you see her, can you do me a solid and just let her know that if her partner knows where she’s gonna be ahead of time, she can do a lot more to save her from walks of shame? You know, cuz I’ve got her back and all, I’ll only make fun of her a little bit. Come on Rufus, let’s get your morning stroll in and see if we can find your wayward mama… say in the mess in twenty minutes or so?" Rebecca heard the door open, and Ronnie call back an unrealistically cheerful "Thanks Sammie!"

She didn’t start moving until the door closed, and was still blushing furiously as she zipped up her hoodie when Sam came back into the curtained nook, giggling unrestrainedly.

**

Ronnie sauntered up to Bex’s table in the mess hall with a smug twinkle in her eye, and her "Good morning?" definitely took an upturn into a question, just enough for only the two of them to hear. At least she was leaving her that grace! Still, Ronnie clearly wasn’t going to let her off easy.

"Same to you, Sarge." — said with a glint in her eye that usually would have accompanied an impudently extended tongue.

"Oh honey, from the color in your cheeks… heh. Well. Nice necklace though, I guess you made a good impression." Her taunting undertone was receding fast, at least.

"Ronnie, please…" Not quite fast enough for Bex though.

"Okay, okay. I’m sorry. Just a little carried away being excited for you." Ronnie glanced around, measuring distances of nearby potential listeners. Bless her for her "only I get to pick on my little sister" protectiveness.

"Little piece of advice though? Purely tactical, not meddling. I swear." She looked pretty earnest, so Bex assented with a head tilt and chagrined lip quirk. "Don’t overdo the 'don’t be seen together' nervous schoolkid thing the day after. Too conspicuous. Plus, sometimes one person will take it too far and misunderstandings arise."

That actually did make a fair amount of sense. She’d have to keep it in mind — she was definitely pretty nervous about screwing something up. "Thanks Ronnie. I really don’t want that to happen. Again, I mean."

"The letter?" Suddenly, Rebecca worried if Ronnie was upset too. Or if, like usual, she just picked up on something before she did.

"Yeah, apparently I was caught off-guard enough I missed some signals. I think we’re okay now. Uh, are you and I okay?"

"Nobody’s shooting at us, so yeah, I’d say we’re good to go. So where are you on the invitation?"

Bex shook her head. "Don’t jinx us, please! Meanwhile, I don’t know about going back or not. I mean, a visit sounds nice at the very least, right? But if I do that and I go there… will I just end up staying there even if I don’t mean to at first? Is that going to make a long-term decision for me without me realizing it at the time?"

"Mmm. Good thing to be weighing ahead of time, I’m glad you’re thinking that far ahead. What about your girl? And, yes, I did see that little smile when I called her your girl."

Rebecca hid a blush looking down at Trent’s improvisation of the day. Ronnie was right though, it did make her smile, having someone. "Yeah, okay. You’re right, I like hearing that. She wanted me to ask her to go. I figured that out before it was too late." Damn, she was glad she did and things didn’t go south.

Ronnie nodded approvingly. "Good, you’re a little early in the relationship for makeup nookie. And?"

Rebecca looked up, blushing or not. "We didn’t! We just… argh. You’re impossible. But I’m pretty sure we left it at me not knowing yet but asking her if I do, and her being good with that. Uhm… really good, apparently." She paused and glanced around, as much for Sam as anyone else. "Between us though, am I rushing things?"

Ronnie looked down into her mug of soul-black coffee and swirled it thoughtfully. "Hard to say, the world we’re in these days. Bad things happen fast, maybe people need good things to. My advice? You’re both good people who deserve good people. Be careful for each other and yourselves, but have fun. Make choices that will make it a happy time now, AND keep it a positive memory if it’s not long term. We all have plenty of other shit to worry us. Step one, don’t panic."

Rebecca thought over Ronnie’s advice while she fiddled with her fork. "She told me the same thing. I know where my towel is."

"She’s a smart little lady. And… what about your towel? Did you shower together last night or something? Damn, girl."

"What? No, it’s a book reference. Don’t panic. Towel. 42. Looks like a fish moves like a fish steers like a cow? Nothing?"

"You’re speaking in tongues again, though that last part does work for a few armored vehicles I suppose. Wait... oh shit. The other day when you two finally figured out you were into each other and started being all lovey-dovey at dinner." Ronnie waved one hand like she was pointing at both younger women side-by-side. "Both of you had wet hair, and only you had been out in the shit for three days!" Ronnie was scandalously gleeful at the indirect epiphany. "I know I said you weren’t rushing but you ain’t wasting any time either!"

"Dammit Ronnie, we were washing Rufus!" She flicked what she thought was a chunk of potato from her dish into Ronnie’s coffee and spent the next twenty minutes trying to explain the classics of British sci-fi humor.

When she finished eating and gave up on Ronnie’s cultural education, she started to pass the dish back over the counter to Trent when something clicked in her head. "Trent… what was on the potatoes?"

**

Bex focused intensely on their gear maintenance routine that morning so she could get it done correctly, but a little ahead of schedule, and went in search of Pat, then to Christine, then the door to Sam’s workshop. After two unanswered knocks, she opened the unlocked (yay!) door, called out for Sam, waited for a reply that didn’t come, and grabbed what she’d tucked just out of sight next to the door. A furtive glance around, and then she slipped inside.

Moving swiftly to the private space in back, she swapped the existing light bulb in the lamp’s flexible arm for the one she’d gotten from Pat. Then, she put the small spray bottle (from the Logs team’s "housewares" shipping container that doubled as a "warehouse") atop a cracked photocell "coaster" from Sam’s junk parts bin.

She quickly scribbled a note on a sheet pilfered from the top of a blank notepad:

_Hey there Rose,_

_Look, it’s us! Pat says if you keep the soil moist and the lamp on several hours a day, this will take root and grow. (I know, the symbolism is a little much. I swear it’s just coincidental. I was just going for the stupidly cute pun that was too good of an opportunity to pass up.)_

_Thank you, always._

_"Your girl",_  
_R. Marie C._

Folding it over, she propped up in front of the small herb cutting in a tiny planter pot and saucer. That handled 'sending flowers', but she felt it left 'send a text the day after' an open item.

She knew Sam would be helping Comms work with some of the visitors to run wire from a new exterior radio antenna — this one for a system that should hopefully enable data bursts to and from similar stations. Starting in the main comms and control center, she walked the most logical route towards where she thought she remembered Sam saying the antenna was going up.

She hadn’t thought to be looking up as she moved through the corridors, so she almost walked right on by before realizing that ladders didn’t typically get left leaning against steel storage cabinets in front of the doors, and toolboxes didn’t usually get left on top of those cabinets. When she paused to investigate, she heard scuffling and light scraping sounds and peered into the conduits, pipes, and ductwork overhead.

Above the cabinet she caught sight of a single foot protruding from familiar coveralls (rolled-up cuff and all). Sam was bracing herself with it on the wall and her opposite knee against a sufficiently chunky pipe like a spider monkey climbing a chimney.

Rebecca chuckled at the absurd imagery, and Sam’s face appeared over a set of parallel electrical conduits. "Oh, sure. NOW someone tall shows up. Gimme just a minute to get this slack past where it was binding up." More scuffling ensued and then she plopped down onto the cabinet with a boom, the sheet metal amplifying her landing.

At the bottom rung of the ladder, she turned and hopped directly to Rebecca’s arms, landing some of her weight on one foot, holding the other up a few inches above the ground as if she was dragging a toe on skates. She held on like that while fishing a radio from her pocket and holding it to her mouth over Rebecca’s shoulder. "Ok guys, go ahead and pull it the rest of the way." Then, turning her mouth to Rebecca’s ear, her voice softened and she sighed out her next sentence. "Mm. Hello my dear, my Remy. To what do I owe this pleasantly distracting surprise?"

Rebecca made a happy little humming subvocalization and a chuckle. "Why hello, Rosie. I could use your help with my radio."

Sam stepped back to support her own weight and stuffed her radio back into a coverall pocket, and as Bex handed hers over, she enjoyed how their fingers brushed just before she spoke. "Well, our radios, actually."

Sam’s look was pleasant but quizzical. "Oh?"

"Yup. So, you see, I was always on the 'call or text the next afternoon or evening after a good date' side of the call/don’t call argument. But since I can’t do that, I was thinking…"

The quirky, ebullient engineer’s eyes lit up. "Oooh, private party line?" She was already digging her radio back out to dual-wield them, pressing keys on one, then the other, and looking back and forth to compare settings. "You may come to regret it though. I’m already thinking of things to whisper in your ear anytime anywhere."

"Ah, crap. That might actually be a problem… not that I don’t like the idea of it, but…"

Sam paused to smile at her reassuringly. "Ah, I’m kidding. I’ll only do it when I know you’re on downtime. Or talking to Lassart."

Rebecca let out a chuffing grunt. "That may actually be more okay than you think. The distractions may interrupt my plans for rebellion and regicide."

Sam mimicked the amused sound. "One of the many vital services I provide to the community."

"You’re the pin in the grenade, babe."

"WOW. If I were male I might take that as harassment… or maybe flirting…" Sam’s smirk was merciless and her eyes glinted coyly.

Rebecca groaned. "ANY way. How many presets can we have? Do we have enough space to add another personalized one?"

The smirk turned mildly more affectionate. "Yeah, these lil’ guys can store up to 100. More than the four A-B-C-D quick buttons, and you start needing to pull them up by number, so you just have to be able to remember them too. Whatcha thinking?"

Bex feigned a martyred air and sighed. "Well, I know how much you and Ronnie like to gang up on me, and since I care about you both SO much, I thought one with you, me, and her might make you two happy."

Sam gave her a saucy look. "Oh, honey. A three-way and merciless humiliation? Are you telling me I have to get kinky with you to get past second base?"

Rebecca tried not to revert to apoplectic sputtering or to flounce off with a melodramatic 'Well, I never!'. "OKAY then. What were you just saying about harassment?"

Sam just glanced up at her with a teasing grin and sparkles in her eyes. "Aww. But you’re so cute when you’re flustered. I’m sorry. Here." Sam leaned forward to give her a peck on the cheek and passed her radio back. "'Our' channels are set to mix in with the others on open receive, but need to be selected to transmit. Just have her add the second one to her radio and we’re good to go. Wait, was that the Marine thing? What was the Army’s thing again? Were they 'Oscar Mike'?"

Rebecca held up her hands and shrugged. "Hell, I dunno. I just remember a short lecture when I called that M4 an M16 the first time. Apparently THAT is a thing. Anyway… on a semi-related note, we’re posted up top until late tonight, so I won’t see you for dinner."

"Aww. But at least now I can be all saccharine and call to say goodnight! Maybe we can make Ronnie barf. And you think we can’t gang up on her too."

Rebecca grimaced. "Only if it’s out the window."

"Look out below." Sam paused and seemed to make a decision. "Are you… y’know. Coming over after work? Or… do we need to, like, slow our roll?"

"I talked to Ronnie a little this morning since she knows us both… she votes for making good memories as a fuck-you to this world. But won’t that wake you?"

Sam smiled and shook her head. "Oh, my dear sweet, my Remy. Missing the point again. Tsk. It’s supposed to, dummy. I’ll spoil I mean take care of the big meathead tonight and get him settled. The door will be UNlocked."

"Okay, good. Because if you want to get past second, I’m going to need a key and to leave a spare toothbrush there."

"Such a waste of a perfectly looted toothbrush, just go all in and bring yours over and leave it there. You know we haven’t figured out an analogue or homemade option for those yet, right? Plus, do you know how long it has been since my feet were warm before last night? Now gimme a kiss and go keep people safe while I help finish up this antenna drop and then steal your dog."

**

"I actually really like this, Remy. Thank you for thinking of it. It’s like I get to have you sitting here with me as long as I don’t turn around." Sam had been intermittently chatting in Rebecca’s ear as she’d been working on something. Rebecca had overheard intermittent clicking of tools, a little typing, a metallic clank or two, a sprinkling of profanity, and some whirring over the last hour or so as Sam tinkered away with her radio set to voice activation.

Around sundown, she’d heard Erik’s voice in the background, and Sam said something about rotors moving freely and some other part not being burnt out, which led to happy Viking grumbling and the sound of a door closing.

Now, she continued her conversation with Sam. "Uh… dear, you know the Greeks had a legend about that, right? Didn’t end well."

"Yeah, well. There’s one in the Bible too. On a tangent, the Greeks were assholes. They dismembered this one lady for being smart and a social power player just because some politician’s dick rival pointed a finger at her claiming she was manipulating and meddling. Hypatia, I think? God forbid some woman decide two guys needed to stop their measuring contest. Plus, Zeus. Incestual serial rapist. I think Kratos had the right idea back in that PlayStation game my brother played."

Rebecca made a thoroughly squicked-out face (which Ronnie secretly compared to how people reacted the first time they tried an MRE). "Okay, yeah. Fuck the Greeks. I have to admit missing a bunch of that, I was more on something of an Eastern Lit kick. Monkey King, Genji, that kind of thing. But, uhm…"

Sam slipped into hesitation. "I never mentioned my brother before, what happened to him?"

Rebecca cringed and groaned a little. "Yeah… sorry. I should have waited for you to say more down the road."

"Meh… like you said, doesn’t make it go away. He was out in Seattle last I heard. I don’t know anything more than that, he called my folks’ place on Sunday to check in, you know? Then Dad came home sick, and Mom wouldn’t even let me come downstairs. We had a screaming fight up the staircase, and she made me sneak out like I was in high school and go to a friend’s place. We… made up before I left, though. So it’s not one of those 'the last thing I said to her was mean' things. Still… I’m glad I’d hugged her at breakfast."

"Fuck… I’m so sorry, Rosie."

"Yeah, thanks. I never heard anything for sure, but… they wouldn’t have left each other’s side, you know?"

Bex wondered if Sam could hear her sniffling through a microphone on her throat, as opposed to near her face. Either way, Sam spared her from trying to think of something to say.

"I was just home for the holidays. Would you believe a nearly free ride at one of MIT’s close but lesser known rivals? Not bragging, just… adding it to the list of nice stuff that got ruined. I’m still breathing, I’ve got food to eat… I USUALLY have clean power to work with… goddammit. One sec." (There were some sounds of 'percussive maintenance' over the active mic.) "Anyway. Life finds a way and all that shit, you know?"

That got a little chuckle out of both of them. Rebecca thought it might be good to shift to lighter things. "That scholarship bit does explain a few things. Speaking of prehistoric monsters brought to life though, how’s our beast doing?"

There was a derisive sound from the other end. "Passed the fuck out on his bed. He TRIED to use ours, but I feared he’d be immovable once he was unconscious, so the spray bottle from your little surprise came in handy. And, thank you. You’re a sappy adorkable butthead. I love it."

Rebecca chuckled, but then something caught her eye in the distance.

**

"And, thank you. You’re a sappy adorkable butthead. I love it." Sam neglected to mention the whole reason Rufus was behind the curtain in the first place was investigating what all the commotion was about when she found the little rosemary sproutling.

She heard her girl chuckle, but then there was an extended pause, after which Remy’s mic started picking up her voice again. "Ronnie, look out there. 4 blocks out. Yeah. Lemme look. No, not yet, but I don’t like something about the way the group is arranged. Yeah. Rosie?"

"Yeah babe. You’ve got me worried. What’s up?"

"Got some people heading towards the west side. Maybe 8, 10. Make sure your rivet gun is ready to go and you know where your other stuff is, okay? I’ve got a hinky feeling about this."

Sam paused what she was doing for a moment, and then resumed with slightly different goals but a lot more urgency to her movements. "Okay. Do you need me to tell people?"

"No, Ronnie’s on it. I gotta switch over to a tac net, okay? Be safe."

"You too. You come home to me."

"Glad to have you to come home to."

God, that had better not be the last… dammit. Not if she had a say in it. Sam mentally punched that line of thought in the face and changed transmit channels. "Erik, it’s Sam. You there? Our baby may have to take the stage early."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rising to challenges, rewards of risks, and some epilogues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please see warnings and disclaimers and self deprecations on part 1!**

Outside of raw ordnance, one of Ronnie’s more useful finds during the Black Tusk armory pillaging was a small collection of night vision equipment. Unfortunately, there was not enough to issue widely to every overnight garrison team. First priority went to the more distant early warning spotters, which left Bex grateful the moon and cloud cover were favorable that evening.

She got a clearer picture of the approaching group every time they crossed an intersection, out of the building shadows. They hadn’t been reported by the sentries, so all anyone knew yet was what she could report.

That wasn’t much, until the group transitioned between the third block out to the second. Sammie, bless her, had at one point helped rig up a motion detector to a handful of solar garden lamps, interrupting their photosensitive activation circuits such that both darkness and movement were required to switch them on. They were no floodlights — she was working on creating those from cannibalized consumer security cameras — but the sudden soft glow illuminating the intersection showed that the first three pedestrians had their hands together in front of them. Either pistols all in the exact same stance or bound… and they were followed by a half dozen Black Tusk assholes and one of their quad mech things. Her voice was laden with pointed concern… "Uhh, Ronnie?"

"Fuck." Ronnie clearly shared her conclusion "Lima Whiskey, Any Lima Whiskey, Oscar Whiskey one-one immediate. Sitrep." She paused for a three count. "Any Lima Whiskey, respond." Another three count. "Control actual, eyes on three possible Lima hostages under control of Black Tusk forces - minimum six infantry, one mech, approaching west gate." (There was no actual gate, but everyone called it that for expediency.)

Barry’s voice joined in, from where he was stationed that evening at the "gate" checkpoint below. "George Whiskey confirms sighting." Here’s hoping he had negotiator training, he might need it soon.

"Copy Oscar, George. Broadway actual notified. Stand by." Great. Bex truly wondered what kind of value Lassart was going to bring to this. Unfortunately, her expectations were soon pretty much met. She developed newfound sympathy for Barry, despite his prior career.

(Stories from Jaime and his friends from meetings colored her opinions about law enforcement as she transitioned into early adulthood, but she supposed protagonist cops finding themselves hobbled by incompetent higher ranks might be a realistic element to old procedurals.)

Barry was trapped between Lassart in his ear and the Black Tusk major from the tunnels in front of him, about 1/4 of the way into the last block in front of the checkpoint. (This was almost directly below her position and made for some interesting angles as she studied the force below through her scope.)

The conversation meandered through "unfortunate misunderstandings", "regrettable outcomes", "misappropriated property and proprietary technology", "the acts of one rogue traitor manipulating both groups into conflict" (Seb, she supposed…), and "guarantees of non-aggression".

Bex half-listened while swinging her aim from one Tusk troop to another, and stopped on one when she saw him holding a finger to his ear and looking slightly downwards. She knew that pose, she’d inadvertently used it a lot until Ronnie trained it out of her. Off VOX, she pointed it out. "Guy on the major’s left. He’s talking to someone."

Ronnie grunted from behind a high-angle shooting stance. (Bex was really grateful for the flexibility and smooth movement of Felicia’s bipod.) "Yeah, kid. We’re not seeing the whole picture here. Something else is in play."

Bex parked her crosshairs on the officer again. She couldn’t see his face well, but something gave her a 'smug' vibe. Seconds later, chaos erupted in her ear and in the distance. "Control! Hostiles sighted near the east gate, reports they are moving to the Joint Task Force encampme…"

The rest was drowned out by the mixed crackle of small arms fire. Rifle or carbine cracks mingled with the chatter of machine gun fire, and the thump-thump-thump, thump-thump-thump of something she hadn’t heard before. Oh, and yelling. So much yelling until the dispatcher’s voice broke through. "All stations split traffic. West gate units use preset one-four, one-four. East gate use preset three-six, three-six." A least someone downstairs had a brain — those numbers would be easier to find and differentiate by feel on the radio keypads.

She could make out the major’s oily voice below, directly in between the distant cascades of gunfire, and over Barry’s mic, now on 14. The major was re-iterating about how he was here to prevent more unfortunate misunderstandings, that the settlement populations were civilians and didn’t need to get involved in the situation. Very polite about his threats, really, with those hostages right there.

Crap. That made Bex remember the spotters operated in twos, only occasionally threes, and she hoped she was looking at one outsized team, not one and a half normal ones.

The sounds of semi-distant battle were picking up, and she could hear Lassart yelling about holding positions in the background of the dispatcher’s transmissions. Did he really expect these grade-A asshats to just leave after pinning Broadway’s militia down with hostages and attacking the military convoy camp? Fucking imbecile.

She swept her view across the group below. Major with his pistol out and slackly aimed at the back of the middle hostage. Two generic soldiers flanking him, both with weapons in hand — carbines in a complacent diagonal carry.

She made the same sweep of motion several times, gauging timing. She didn’t really have anything to compare to, but Ronnie had told her that all that time using the bolt action rifle had forced her to get pretty fast at acquisition after cycling the bolt took her off target, and that it was making her surprisingly smooth and quick at it with Felicia. This might end up being the first time she’d be firing her in anger though…

"Ronnie, if things go to shit I can take the officer and the mook on his left cleanly, but may not get back down to the one nearest us in time. I have to start in the middle because he’s closest to getting a shot off. Also, there’s three in cover farther back."

Ronnie answered both of her implied questions. Well, sorta. Answered one. Got ready for the other. "I can drop the closest one hard and fast. Then we can try to make cover for our people to rabbit." She set two canister grenades on a side table next to her. Rebecca couldn’t tell whether they were flash bangs or smoke, but trusted Ronnie’s call either way.

Bex took her left hand off the fore grip on Felicia to transmit, but kept the crosshair on the major with her right hand and the support of the bipod. "Control, Oscar Whiskey one-two here. I have a solution on the west gate group. Say again, we have the drop on them."

The dispatcher started to reply… "Copy, O-W-one-two. Wait one…"

… and then Lassart cut in. "Miss Clinton, you will hold your fire until I say otherwise!" 

Ugh. He wasn’t up here, he had no eyes on. Maybe she should have had Ronnie bring it up. "Dammit, Lassart, you’re leaving our guests out to swing. And you really think these assholes will just leave after killing them? Make the smart play! You’re the one who said I know when to shoot!"

Sounds of grumbling and arguing in the background at Comms as he came back on. "You heard your order! If you’re going to persist in your insubordination, there will be consequences later! Miss Ellis, control your partner!"

Oooh, he shouldn’t have called Ronnie that. The creak of her battle gear sounded like one big fist tightening in a glove. Both women seethed briefly, sensing rather than seeing each other’s mood.

A moment later, Bex sounded almost despondent. "Ronnie… he’s not going to let them walk away." She meant the major, and the hostages.

"I trust you, kid. You’re the one who sees what’s happening. I’ve got your six."

"You’re the best." 

Ronnie set down her M249, balanced on the bipod she attached to it when on overwatch duty, and picked up both grenades in one hand, one on either side of her middle finger.

Bex’s eyes flicked up for only a split second then back to her scope. Ah, different sizes. One flash, one smoke. She heard the faint clink of fingers hooking grenade pins. Four forcibly slow breaths later, she saw the major tilt his head a fraction of an inch to one side, saw his jaw move. "Ronnie, they’re talking about something on the ra.. fuck. Go!"

She’d seen the major’s forearm flex and tighten, refining his aim and anticipating the recoil — a hard habit to override. A fraction of a second after the THWAP of Felicia spitting their first suppressed round, she was reassured to hear the double ping sound next to her and Ronnie’s grunt of exertion. She saw the major start to crumple as she changed targets — at that angle, she might’ve caught his carotid, jugular, or heart, but definitely a lung, with no intersection with his armor — at least on the way in.

The scuffling sound of Ronnie taking up her weapon again came just as Bex lined up the same shot on her second target, and the light machine gun sounded like it was trying to mimic Felicia’s speech, just with a stutter, just as Bex fired again.

The hostages dove into motion as soon as they heard the wet splat and grunt from the major. The outer two scrambled for the friendly barricades, but the middle had his blood up and went for the major’s pistol. Unfortunately, the delay earned him a wound from one of the few shots the second rank of Black Tusk mercs got off before both of Ronnie’s grenades went off, stunning them and obscuring their view. The hit spun and toppled him, but he was still struggling to help push himself along as one of his colleagues dragged him to cover.

Barry’s voice came on the radio from below. "Shots fired at west gate! The hostages are clear!’

Both women grinned viscerally and knew without looking the other would be doing the same. Ronnie zippered a line across the three fallen aggressors just to be sure, and then started firing at the muzzle flashes in the smoke. Bex had switched Felicia to three round bursts and was putting pairs of them into the cloud about a foot and a half behind the fuzzy stars of flame, and suppression fire is exactly what Ronnie’s weapon was designed for.

They’d extinguished or chased off two of the five (Five? Crap. Rearguard caught up?) when the ripsaw noise of a minigun echoed in the distance. Even though the BRRRRRRRT BRRRRT BRRRRT was far away, Bex still felt her mouth go dry at the memory of being under close fire from one. She hoped whenever she had her first nightmare from that, she’d be able to roll over to Sam’s embrace.

The sound and distant fury seemed to give everyone on the battlefield pause so she ducked back into cover for the same welcome breather everyone else was taking — some vestigial instinct when an apex predator swoops over, perhaps? Either way, she took the chance to glance at the clear window on the side of her magazine and check her remaining round count.

As if thoughts of her from the trenches had summoned her, Sam’s voice came from her earpiece. "Remy, hey sugar. Don’t worry, that’s just Erik. Sure, the faring over the motor housing you shot up is held on with duct tape, but it’s what inside that matters. Give a Viking a gun and I swear he’s genetically predisposed to name it Mjolnir."

Based on Ronnie’s chuckle, this was on their 'friends and family' channel, so Bex switched to reply. "By Odin, Erik’s probably near orgasm by now."

"Eew. But I hope so, that’s a lot of ammo he’s throwing. Still, lives before supplies, eh?"

Right then, a splash of light played over the ceiling above their position in the window, driving Rebecca to her feet. "Crap, gotta go!"

There was a sharp THUMP below accompanied by a bang overhead, and they were showered with chunks of plywood, drywall, and metal framing. This repeated twice more as they scrambled frantically into the next room and risked a peek. The searchlight snapped to their new location as the quad mech’s turret turned to their new position.

They were already moving by the time it fired. Their allies on the ground cracked off a few shots at it, and the women saw through a floor length bay window as the mech’s return fire detonated against the checkpoint barricades. Fortunately for those below, more than one of their layers were thick steel plates like construction crews would put over holes in the road, tilted upwards and laterally, and the explosions seemed to splash off at a deflected angle.

Ronnie muttered as they caught their breath… "Well, now we know what the fucking 25 millimeter ammo was for."

Apparently she was on VOX for the 'family' channel, because Sam’s voice cut in sharply over the background chaos (which included Seb’s voice arguing with Lassart in the background). "Wait, what the fuck? What’s going on up there?"

Rebecca filled her in on the autocannon mech as she and Ronnie ducked out of that condo and into the next. She heard scuffling movement and swearing from Sam, and then, "Stay alive, love. I’m on my way."

It took a second to parse that, and then alarm set in. "Sammie? What? Sam?!?" No reply came, so her mind was split between nervous confusion and taking alternating potshots at the mech, trying to wing its spotlight or some optics next to it, but either they were protected or she couldn’t get a bead on it with the glare. She and Ronnie settled into a fast enough 'shoot and scoot' rhythm that they only caught occasional return fire, and they were always already moving away when it hit. Meanwhile, gunfire continued to echo from the east.

After several minutes of that dance — Bex wasn’t sure just how many — Sam’s voice came back on the radio. "Oscar Whiskey one-two, Sam Conroy, do you read?" Huh. Formal. She must be on the tactical channel, business talk. Bex switched to reply.

"Conrad, go for one-two."

"Do you have a laser designator up there? Not just a sight, but the chunky dual emitter guidance ones."

Rebecca glanced up at Ronnie, who chimed in. "Negative, no painters up here."

"Damn. I can disable that wanna-be AT-AT but need to lase it, and all these ground positions are pretty exposed or soft cover."

Rebecca broke in, some of her professionalism slipping. "Sam… don’t stick your head out. Where are you?"

"Down and to your right. I can see what’s left of the floor you’ve been firing from. I’m on the stairs."

Rebecca peeked out in that direction, and sure enough, spotted a tiny glimpse of red hair that had escaped Sam’s cap and the very edge of her face reflecting some of the perimeter’s lighting. She was three steps from the top of a staircase set into the underpass wall, leading up to the bridge and frontage road. The concrete wall serving as a railing for the upper street she was bunched up against was too thin for Rebecca’s comfort, but she thought of something. "Sam, do you have a designator?"

"Yes, the one on my SMG." Bex saw the movement of Sam wiggling the gun where it was cradled close to her.

"Okay, hang on. Ronnie, can you go next door to distract it?"

Ronnie looked up at her questioningly. "Sounds like you got a plan, kid?"

"Most of one."

"'nuff for me." Ronnie thumped her on the shoulder and hustled back out into the interior hallway. Bex ran to the bathroom, and having learned her lesson at the pet store, used Felicia’s stock to smash the vanity mirror — hoping she didn’t mess up the rubber shoulder padding. Grabbing a good-sized shard, she returned to her prior position.

"Okay, on my count, Ronnie, get that thing’s attention. Then, Sam, lase ME, and I’ll try to bounce it. Good?"

Ronnie and Sam overlapped each other with warnings about lasers and eye safety.

"Okay, okay I’ll hold it off to the other side of this chair and keep my eyes on the target."

Ronnie "Copy"'d, and Sam "Yup"'d. Bex saw Sam ready the hamster ball in her left hand, and offered silent thanks to whoever was keeping Lassart occupied and more importantly, silent.

"Okay ladies. Three… two... one... go!"

At go, she heard bursts from Ronnie’s P90 — smart, she could move faster with that than the LMG. Bex wiggled the mirror in a rough estimate until she caught sight of the dot moving on the ceiling, and then swept it down to the mech. Holding it as still as she could, she called out to Sam. "Got it… Sam, send it!"

The drone zipped across Bex’s field of vision — she thought she saw it waver briefly, maybe it saw both the mirror and the mech? But, it recovered and resumed its charge to right between the front of the mech, below the dot on its hull. "Hit it!"

Bex closed her eyes just in time, still seeing the sudden glow through her eyelids and hearing the harsh 'FRZAAK' from below. When she re-opened her eyes, she glanced to Sam to make sure she was safe and saw her do a little fist pump, and then looking back to the mech, saw its spotlight flickering erratically and turret twitching. It made no coherent movements, and she sighed.

Sam spoke up with a chuckle. "EMP’s a bitch. But… you’re not going to like this part. That’s temporary. I need to get underneath it before it recovers."

Rebecca was stunned. "What? That’s nuts! There are still two of their guys back in the shadows…"

"Well, shit. But without more big badda-boom, this is gonna be our best shot." Then, in a different tone… "Babe, I’m on our channel now. I know how you feel because it’s what I go through every time you put that armor on. If it makes you feel better, I have the other set on right now, I swear. Do. You. Trust. Me?"

"It does a little… and, dammit. Yes, but I CAN’T…" Bex’s voice trailed off.

"I know, Remy. Why do you think I came to help? You were in trouble. I can’t either. But this is bigger than either of us. People need help NOW. They need both of us."

Bex bit her lip. "I hate it when you’re right."

"I can think of several times you clearly didn’t. Are we gonna do this?"

"Dammit. Yes."

Bex switched back to the tac channel. "Barry, can you advance and help along the sides? We’ll cover from above too."

"Affirmative, Oscar two. She won’t be alone."

"Thank you." Her tone was heartfelt and genuine, then business again. "Wait for smoke and then move." Bex pulled the partially empty 20 round magazine from Felicia and replaced it with one of the chunky 60’s from her pouches. Not good for shooting level from a bipod, but she wasn’t going to be doing any prone shooting and was not about to risk a reload with Sam exposed. "Ronnie, you good?"

"Good to go, kid. I’m in the next apartment. I can’t see much of this side of the street but have great lines on the far side." Of course Ronnie had already found herself a decent position, and knew exactly what her partner needed to do to complement it.

Bex glanced around and spotted a rolling butcher’s block / wine rack in the kitchen to her left — only one bottle in it, which she pulled out and lay on the counter. Who knows, maybe she could share it with the girls later. She grabbed one leg and hauled the cart to the bay window, threw it on its side, and bunkered up behind it. Oh, look.

"Hold position. Eyes on one." She primed her only smoke grenade and then threw it into the street. While it was still airborne, she twisted her suppressor ninety degrees (Ow! Still hot…) and slid it off, re-shouldering Felicia.

Intentionally thrusting the barrel of the rifle outside of the window — counter to proper sniping behavior — she put a loud, flashing and banging three round burst into the silhouette she’d spotted at the base of a tree, just as the smoke popped and began to fill the street a second time. "Sam, Barry, go!"

Ronnie either saw or had some good guesses where others were hiding across the street, as Bex could see little needles of flame flickering like a tattoo gun in a window ahead of her. Barry was shouting orders to the one or two guards he had with him as they swarmed around and forward from the barricade.

Return fire at Bex’s gratuitous display shattered glass around her and chipped the edges of the four inch thick cutting board she rested against — a disconcerting experience to be sure, with a few minor cuts from flying splinters to her right forearm and the side of her neck… but NOT her shoulder because she’d attached the small pauldron add-ons after the gash on her left side! (Ok, no, Sam had attached them without allowing her an opportunity to protest.)

But, drawing fire to herself gave Barry and his people — maybe even Sam — targets for counter fire, which they laid into with gusto. It sounded like Barry had opted for a booming shotgun instead of the snappy rifles or carbines the other guards had — she clearly heard at least two of those firing in staggered rhythm now, and she saw their muzzle flashes below in her peripheral vision. She couldn’t see any more targets, but put a couple more enthusiastic bursts into suspicious looking shadows. Suppression, presenting another not-Sam target, whatever.

Sam and Barry reached the mech, and she heard Barry yelling instructions and Sam grunting as a small group of them worked to tip it over with a clattering bang. Barry darted away to cover while Sam hunkered close to the big robot’s belly, narrating a little as if she was tinkering in the workshop. "Ah, standardized designs are a wonderful thing. So nice of them to use the same security screws as the one you took down for me to autopsy. And there goes the inner EMI shielding, for all the good it did… aaand master battery disconnect…. we’re good!"

Just as Sam mentioned the battery, Bex heard the growl of an engine and scrabbling of chunky tires on pavement. Ronnie beat her to the warning, calling out that a vehicle was coming just as lights swung onto their street two blocks out. Sam started to quip about them being upset about their toys being stolen, but it dissolved into a frantic squeak as a foot-long gout of flame erupted from roof turret on the big truck. It was accompanied by the echoing BOOMBOOMBOOM Bex recognized as the nearby version of the thumping fire in the distance. She looked down to see where they were firing, and felt a chill as divots erupted in the street.

Ronnie was yelling a warning, that it was a "fifty cal" and to find hard cover, but Rebecca’s own safety was a passing thought with Sam trying to get as small as possible behind the toppled mech. The hulking beast of an overgrown SUV was moving too fast for her to get a good bead on the gunner between the armor panels partially enclosing the turret, and a burst at the driver seemed to just splatter away on the windshield.

Ronnie responded quickly to her frantic call to target the lights — one blew out right away, and sparks danced across the front bumper and hood. Bex yanked her flashbang out hastily and she lobbed it, too anxious to look away entirely. The pain and spotted vision was worthwhile to know it either detonated before landing, or bounced and then went off, ahead of the truck and high enough to be seen from inside.

While she blinked away the distant flash, the chirping tire sound of hard braking let her breathe a little easier... and as soon as she could see reasonably well, she gave the turret gunner a third eye socket and new nostril as she snarled under her breath.

"Bye, Felicia." Shame about his night vision goggles, but it was Sam out there. Lives before supplies.

The Black Tusk vehicle growled to a stop a few doors down from her position, and the three remaining occupants bailed out. The driver and front passenger used their armored doors as cover, but the rear doors apparently opened 'backwards', like old car 'suicide doors’, and the other right-side passenger ducked around his towards the rear. Bex was beyond qualms about shooting these assholes in the back at this point, but only managed to wing him before he was around the vehicle’s corner.

The front passenger was tucked in tight to the doorframe, and she was able to get a shot through the 'V' above the open door’s hinge. Her shots hit him high on the left torso — definitely an armored area, but it staggered him and knocked him from his perch on the high vehicle’s running board.

She couldn’t pursue the matter immediately though, as return fire started showering her in debris again. As she ducked, it looked like the driver was wise to her position, resting his carbine in the angle of the door hinge on the far side of the truck and firing up at her across the hood. Between the door and the main bulk of the truck, there was no way she’d be able to get an angle on him, and the roof probably blocked Ronnie’s shots. She was busy with the passengers anyway, based on the sustained fire Bex was hearing from that direction. In fact, Ronnie must have finally reached the end of a belt, as she called out, "Reloading! Suppression fire!"

Gah, crappy timing. Bex replied "Pinned!", but Barry and his guys stepped up their rate of fire down on the street until Ronnie got back in the game…

"Green!" Depending who Barry’s backup was, they might know what that meant, but the resumed hosing Ronnie gave the right side of the truck was self explanatory.

Bex tried to peek out for a shot at the driver, hoping he’d ducked after the ground team’s barrage, but let out an involuntary "Shit!" as she flinched back behind the heavily abused cutting block — one of his rounds coming close enough she could hear it whip by after clipping the tattered wood.

Ronnie’s latest volley slackened (maybe she’d dealt with the other two), so Rebecca was able to clearly hear Sam’s invective over the radio. "Step the fuck off my girl, dickhead…" — followed by several sputtering bursts with a rate of fire so high they sounded almost like the 'THBBBT" of splattery raspberry blown into a microphone. This was followed by two quick booms from Barry’s shotgun, and then local silence, with only the chatters and booms of the distant battle to the east.

Rebecca carefully looked around from her position, and when she sought out Sam, she saw her lying mostly on her back, head away from the mech, rolled onto her right side for a low-exposure firing angle. Sam looked up as she relaxed, and upon realizing eye contact, blew Rebecca a kiss.

**

Sam watched Ronnie and Rebecca stagger out of the condo building’s lobby. Even exhausted, limping slightly, and bleeding slowly from a cut on her forearm, Ronnie was vigilant, aiming down her sights and surveying the street, but she relaxed when she saw Barry’s team was doing a decent job of security. Rebecca’s exit was more hurried — she had her Tavor at a low ready, Felicia hastily slung over her back, but after seeing Ronnie relax and turn to check on the spotter team’s condition she jogged quickly to where Sam was starting to get up. Sam smiled at her and extended a hand.

"Help a girl up?"

That got a little chuckle, and Rebecca pulled her up directly into a relieved embrace, thunking their recon armor cuirasses against the other. When they stepped back, both of their expressions turned to dismay — at Rebecca’s myriad of scrapes and scratches from flying debris, and at Sam’s grimace and grunt as she put her hand on her back.

She saw Rebecca looking her over further worriedly, and explained. "I’m okay. I just pulled something in my back when we tipped the AT-AT."

Rebecca sagged in relief and returned the status report. "They’re all just flesh wounds - hurts but I’m still in the fight."

"Oh Remy." Sam shook her head. "It’s all fun and games until someone is hopping around on one leg. Bad enough we’re in black armor, don’t jinx us further."

Ronnie scoffed at both of them as she returned, flanked by one of the newly re-armed spotters. "I swear, you two. Anyway. The brave idiot caught a round in the hip, but looks like his pelvis and artery are intact. He’s stable. You two?"

They shrugged at her and Sam replied. "Okay enough to scold each other, Sarge."

Ronnie nodded, and gestured at the vehicle, then over her shoulder to where gunfire still echoed. "So you’re both up for a little Grand Theft Auto then?"

The women made their way towards the truck, where one of Barry’s guys was already unceremoniously moving and tossing bodies aside. Rebecca got a look at the driver, and Sam had almost literally cut him off at the knees — she must have shot his legs under the door, and then either she or Barry finished him.

Her attention turned to the vehicle. It was unlike anything she’d ever seen, bigger than a Humvee, and smaller than those giant six-wheeled trucks she’d seen in later Afghanistan and Iraq news. Honestly, it looked like their very angry middle sibling. The front edge of the hood was level with her face, the bumper higher than her knee, engine still rumbling within. No wonder Sam could hit that guy from below. Rebecca thought it would look at home in a Halo game or an Aliens movie, and even Ronnie seemed awed — but like she knew why she should be.

"Jesus… who the fuck are these guys that they got themselves a fucking Oshkosh?"

Sam tilted her head. "Sarge… I’m going to guess you’re not talking about the kid’s overalls."

"You’d be right. These beasts were going to be the next Humvees. MRAPs in a smaller package. God, what I’d have given to be riding around in one of these a decade ago."

"Huh."

As Sam meandered around the side of the 'Humvee 2.0' or whatever, peeking in at the cabin — the floorboards at the height of her chin, Ronnie quietly spoke to Bex. "You okay, kid?"

Bex surprised herself with a shiver. "Yeah. I... let’s say I get the whole no fraternization within squads thing now. To the hilt." Ronnie clapped her on the shoulder and gave her a gentle affectionate shake, but their attention was pulled to Sam’s excitement around the corner.

"Oooh!" She scampered back into view and looked at the toppled mech. "Oooooooh. Sarge, this is going to be fun."

Rebecca and Ronnie shared a look and followed her back around the side of the truck, trying not to laugh as she hauled herself up onto a steel 'running board' step the height of her thigh, and then onwards into the rear cabin. Once seated, Sam gestured at a console in front of and around her seat. "Look. Comms. Fancy electronic warfare stuff. Situation awareness. And look!" She poked her finger excitedly at a screen showing a frozen sideways view of the street in front of them, with a SIGNAL LOST message blinking in the middle. Bex glanced back at the mech, and back at the screen, and back at Sam, whose wide-eyed glee was palpable when their eyes met. "Yeahhhh. Exactly."

**

Rebecca reluctantly and cautiously followed Sam’s instruction to reconnect the mech’s power cutoff — ready to yank it back out at the slightest alarming twitch… and only breathed easier after Sam held out a thumbs up and gave her a happy wave from the control seat. Ronnie, meanwhile, had solved the puzzle of getting the thing upright again. After initial lamentations about nothing overhead to toss the truck’s winch line over, she thought to angle it around a street lamp post. They dragged the mech to the nearby curb where its feet snagged, arresting the slide and fulcrumed the bot upright.

Sam ran a quick function check and confirmed complete control from the truck, and as she continued to tinker, couldn’t resist trying to mimic an evil mastermind voice as she proclaimed, "ARISE, muahahah! I dub thee Thorn!" Then, she switched to a deep, artificially monotone voice: "Robots, ACTIVATE."

Ronnie rolled her eyes and Rebecca very carefully did not, as she was right in front of the mech’s camera while the two of them worked to exchange the cannon’s armored box magazine with one from the truck’s cargo bay. That got another excited thumbs up over the top of the big vehicle’s roof.

After a brief conference with Barry, Ronnie returned to Bex. "They’ll pull back with us and hold at the gate while we go join the party. You good to drive, and I’ll grab the Ma-Deuce?"

This wasn’t familiar jargon to Rebecca. "The what? Also, I’ve never driven anything this fucking huge."

"M-2 fifty caliber heavy machine gun. You who talk about respecting the classics. And, don’t worry. I’m pretty sure we won’t notice if you hit something. Make like the song and shut up and drive."

Rebecca still looked moderately horrified and her mouth moved like she was trying to think of something to say. She decided she probably looked like a goldfish, shut her mouth, and went around the truck to climb into the driver’s seat, closing the door with a very solid thunk. Ronnie with the country music again.

Rebecca had just figured out where the basic controls were on her new monster, amongst the dizzying array of switches, knobs and a touch screen, and Sam was starting to radio out… "Control, Oscar Whiskey Two and Conroy. Commandeered…" … when Ronnie’s booted feet thumped down from the roof hatch and made Sam squeak.

"Say again, Conroy? We had some weird interference there…" Rebecca had to strain not to giggle at Sam’s blush behind the radio handset.

Sam let out a fuming sigh and pulled her cap off in frustration. "Commandeered robotic weapon platform and armored vehicle moving through top level to assist eastern friendlies. Please tell relevant parties not to fucking shoot at us."

"Copy, Conroy. Will relay."

Rebecca released the parking brake and put the transmission in gear, but was so startled by how the vehicle started to creep faster than she expected, with only a slight whine and no major change in engine sound, that she stomped on the brake pedal with a lurch. "Sorry! Jesus. I think this thing’s actually a hybrid."

Sam groaned from the back. "Okay, but can you try to avoid throwing me at the screen in front of me, please?"

"Yes Miss Daisy. Sorry, Miss Daisy.

**

They got partway across the bridge, in convoy with the hunchbacked mini AT-AT, when Sam glanced at another display and pulled a pair of headphones on (wiping them hastily with her sleeve as a near afterthought). "Holy shit Sarge, I think I’ve got their entire comms net back here." She listened for a few seconds, hand on one side of the headphones. "Yeah. Definitely."

Ronnie’s voice came over speakers inside the cabin. "Can you route us to flank them?"

Sam tapped and poked for bit. "Yup. Babe, route coming up on your display now."

Rebecca glanced down and saw the touch panel in the center of the dash switch to a map view, with a plotted line going the rest of the way across the bridge, then swinging to the north by a few blocks. She found herself having to suppress an urge to hum The Wallflower’s "One Headlight" as she drove, and she was grateful for the powerful assisted steering with her still-healing upper arm. "I could get used to this."

The fastest Sam could manage out of her new four-legged toy was about 20 to 25 mph in an awkward canter, which gave them ample time for plotting their next few moves. Everyone agreed Sam should prioritize the 'hardest' targets like other armored vehicles or mechs, while Ronnie would go for any force multipliers like command elements or crewed weapons. Rebecca groused about not being useful in the coming fight, wondering aloud if they should have brought others with them so she could dismount and find high ground. Ronnie replied that the fight at the encamped convoy had been going on long enough they needed to "deliver a fast, forceful, and loud strike to pull attention off the hard pressed defenders", that the time for subtle precision was past.

Sam took a more personal tack: "Remy, sweetheart, look what kind of shape you’re in and the crazy shitstorm their 'diversion' was. I’ve been shot at enough for the month and would really really like us all to be in something bulletproof if we’re wading into that clusterfuck ahead. Plus, hopefully all you have to do is sit there and look pretty while I play video games and Sarge goes to town with a real-life BFG. I’d say we’re all playing to our talents here." Her flirtatious smirk was practically audible, and so was Ronnie’s long-suffering derision in her sigh through the speakers… but the familiarity of both brought a hint of normalcy back and helped settle Rebecca’s jangled nerves.

As they passed due north of the fight, Sam turned the robot southwards at its plodding pace. Rebecca accelerated for the next two blocks, and then made a right, planning another ahead to converge from two directions. Sam found this a little disorienting, as she’d originally been watching the captured robot through the windshield as they drove. She muttered about always having preferred third person view in video games as she refocused on the screen in front of her and tried to ignore her peripheral vision and inner ear. At least whoever designed the bot had invested in some decent image stabilization, she was pretty sure any more conflicting positional signals to her brain would make her puke.

She swallowed hard and pushed herself to speak up just as they made the last turn. "Okay, I see what looks like a small ammo distribution point at an open-backed Humvee up ahead and… ooh, light enhancement, one sec. Four guards."

"Have they noticed us yet?" Ronnie’s boots creaked as she tightened her stance in the turret.

"They’ve looked over at the mech and then back at the fighting to the south, Sarge."

"Beautiful. Let’s try not to blow up any good loot. Take your toy south and get eyes, hopefully they’ll just assume you’re reinforcements. Bex, hold here like we’re waiting for the bot to clear the intersection."

The mech plodded along, while Rebecca slowed at an idle. "Ronnie… these guys aren’t shooting at anyone. Should we give them the chance to turn, like Seb? Or run?"

Ronnie’s voice was genuinely sad, but carried a hint of indisputability born of experience. "I’m sorry kiddo. Out here on the edge of the fight, they could have defected or deserted by now. And we can’t yield surprise. Speed and aggression."

Rebecca sighed as Sam’s mech lurched the last few steps out of the intersection. "Save our people. Okay."

She felt Sam reach past Ronnie’s ankle to squeeze her shoulder as she reported what her screen showed. "Got a whole grip of guys along the block in scattered cover. Three, no, one more coming in from the far side… four vehicles with mounted guns. Shooting from the upper floors on the east side too."

"Okay. Prioritize the biggest weapons you see, and any really solid cover. Then start can-opener’ing the building. I’ll go loud when you do, then Bex, crawl us forward so I can fire down the street to the south. We’ll have most of their cover in enfilade. Be ready to move us as needed though."

Bex tightened her grip on the steering wheel and started to lift her foot from the brake. "Got it, Ronnie."

"Ok Sarge, here goes." Driving the mech manually was pretty much like using a Playstation or Xbox controller, but selecting targets could be done by tapping on the touchscreen overlaying the mech’s camera feed. This let Sam rapidly tap one armored truck, fire, and move to another in seconds. The first, nearest them, she blew in one of the heavy bullet-but-not-cannon-proof windows with her opening shot, and fired a second with the same aim. She didn’t know if the first round would get through, but cringed at the thought of the detonation(s) inside.

Ronnie’s booming .50 cal opened up above their heads — first in lone long thundering volley, then shorter controlled bursts. Sam thought the slow-firing beast straddled the line between "machine gun" and "small cannon", especially in the noise department.

She expected to have to adjust her aim when she felt Rebecca let the truck roll forward, until she remembered she was watching the feed from somewhere else and fought to ignore her inner ear again. Her next shot went straight into the engine block of a truck identical to theirs approaching from the south. Ronnie most have been about to do the same thing with the .50 because the other women heard her mutter "… or that works too..." over the comms as the other vehicle’s hood tore away in the explosion.

Sam’s next target was another similar armored truck, but with a midsized machine gun bigger than Ronnie’s SAW and smaller than the .50 she pounded away with now. It was facing away from them so she went for an externally carried fuel tank, and between the cannon round detonation and the energetically dispersed and ignited fuel, a dozen-plus feet were engulfed in a satisfying fireball that sent lots of enemies scampering in scattered flight. 

The occupants of the last vehicle, a comparatively lightly built Humvee with a smaller unarmored machine gun — possibly standard surplus resprayed in company colors — seemed to notice the pattern of vehicles attracting explosions and bailed out, zigzagging away under small arms fire from the parking lot encampment still obstructed from the ladies’ view a half block south.

The upper floors of the eastern building were brick masonry, thoroughly chewn up by Erik’s minigun, but seemingly mostly unpenetrated given the muzzle flashes from within. Sam simply worked down the row, tapping the facing edge of each window’s casement, firing, then moving on to the next. It was a little like watching a string of demolition charges zipper across a derelict building or pit mine cliff face in slow motion.

Ronnie was sending loud booming bursts along cover objects at street level, focusing on demolition as much as individual hostiles. Her main concern was easing the pressure on the JTF defenders, and routing the attackers en masse would probably achieve a larger impact sooner. It looked like some of the concrete barriers, sandbag walls, and pop-up barricades had already been there for outwards facing use — a small scale echo of the Maginot Line, defensive fortifications repurposed by the attackers when they were overrun.

Some of the retreat she wanted was visibly starting— ones, twos, even threes in a couple of places, peeling away southwards or east into the ground floor of the building. She let them go for the time being. Sure, it wasn’t thorough, but they weren’t doing any shooting, others still were, holding their ground and even… …the receding tide made the group of three exiting the building and advancing towards them more visible. She saw one raise the stubby broad muzzle of a… shit!

Rebecca had slowed in a good spot for Ronnie to shoot down the east side of the street, but she’d nervously kept her hand on the gearshift and her right foot only lightly on the brake pedal, bouncing her left knee in helpless agitation. So, when she heard Ronnie’s warning, she’d thrown the truck in reverse, cocked the wheel a tad to the left, and stomped on the gas by the time Ronnie finished saying "GRENADE", and they’d already broken past resting inertia by "MOVE!"

This made the last of Ronnie’s burst chew into the corner of the building, leaving three large pockmarks in a horizontal line. Sam caught her balance in the back seat with a startled yelp, and Rebecca caught two glints of baseball sized silver whiz by just before a pair of fairly sizable explosions to the north of them. At least they missed the small ammunition dump, the secondary explosions would have been unpleasant, even as a near miss.

The flyby distracted her enough she didn’t stop before clobbering a handful of newspaper machines, but like Ronnie hinted earlier, they barely felt it as Rebecca saw them go flying in the rear-view camera.

"Nice driving, kiddo." Ronnie’s approving / appreciative voice came down over the comms.

Rebecca took a moment to catch a breath or two before replying. "Look, I have ONE JOB on this lousy ship, it’s stupid, but I’m going to do it, okay?"

Ronnie was silent, but Sam piped up from the back seat in a borderline unhingedly perky voice. "…and then it exploded!" There was a heavy emphasis on the middle syllable of the last word as she tapped the screen repeatedly and their little friend around the corner thumped five times, and Rebecca took at least three seconds to stop giggling. It’s possible sustained stress was letting a little hysteria creep in. It didn’t help that she had glanced at Sam in the mirror and received a coyly smug look that could only be subtitled as "Oh, don’t give me that. You know you love me." (The mirror must have only been there for eye contact with people in the rear seats, as there was no rear window in the massive beast).

Sam’s volley turned out to be the punctuation marking the end of the engagement. There were a few tapering crackles and bangs, but as they eased back around the corner, they saw forces in proper (if hodgepodge) US military colors advancing by fire and movement, paying particular attention to the street to the south and the well-perforated building to the east. One soldier was startled to see them on the northern flank and raised his weapon, but his colleague literally smacked the back of his helmet and gestured emphatically, first at them, and then sweepingly across the quieting battlefield. They nodded up at Ronnie, both grateful and a little sheepish, as their perimeter expanded past the truck and Rebecca pulled over near the entrance to the parking lot.

A standard desert tan Humvee and a large white pickup truck with city badging had taken the brunt of the firefight. The truck was on fire, and both were perforated to the point of taking on the appearance of giant kitchen graters. Several plastic-and-metal cargo crates stacked as perimeter barricades were also pretty battered, one spilling leaking MRE’s onto the pavement. Behind those was a miniature version of one of the steel plate bridge checkpoint barricades, with a familiar minigun protruding from it like some kind of grounded Civil War ironclad. Rebecca realized it must be on wheels as several people worked to push it aside, and as she leaned against the front right fender of their truck with a weary sigh, Sam nestled up next to her and explained while Rebecca nuzzled her hair with a mutual sense of tangible relief. "It’s an old engine hoist, believe it or not. Erik took care of the mounting and fabrication, while I touched up the feed motor you plinked. Nice work, that."

Rebecca shuddered inwardly at the memory. "Well… they say good relationships are based on a lot of common ground. We can both add 'shot at by fucking terrifying big guns' to our list."

Sam lifted her head away and beamed. "You used the 'R' word!" This prompted a tiptoed peck on the cheek. "And, we survived both times, and as you said Ronnie put it… took their stuff. Oh, look who it is!"

Rebecca looked in the direction Sam was waving enthusiastically towards — perhaps a little too enthusiastically, given her flinch and quiet "Oooh, ow, ok. Less with the excited…" that Rebecca did not miss. Seb, Pat, and Chris waved back and made their way through the swirl of cleanup and triage.

Tired hugs were gingerly exchanged, and Rebecca gave Seb a little bit of an extra smile. "You know… that’s the second time we’ve saved your ass. But…" She held up a finger to halt his reply. "It also seems to be another time you’ve been helping when you didn’t really need to. Thanks for not letting us down."

He nodded, both to her and past her shoulder to where Ronnie was climbing down over the hood. "Gunnery Sergeant. Thanks for the assist."

Rebecca saw Ronnie nod from the corner of her eye. "Corporal. Good job holding the line." The tone of her voice said as much as her words, carrying that succinct note of a superior officer’s approval of a duty well fulfilled.

Seb seemed to remember something. "Oh, hey. These guys can give me another flag patch if you want yours back…"

Ronnie stopped him before he’d pulled it off. "Seems you’ve earned it for the time being. Keep it, and let it be a reminder what to stand for. I will, however, accept one of theirs as a replacement and symbol of diplomatic ties."

"Yes, ma’am. I will make that happen right now, Gunnery Sergeant." They exchanged salutes and Seb returned to the milling background crowd. Before they joined Sam’s conversation with the others, Rebecca leaned closer to Rhonda.

"Ronnie, do you think he knows you mustered out?"

"Kiddo, I think he understands, especially now, that when things went to shit, the oath meant more than enlistment status to anyone worth their boots. Also, he’s clearly trying so hard to get on our good side, I figure let him run with it."

"Mmm. You know, I don’t think he checked me out that time."

Ronnie scoffed. "Hon, have you looked in the mirror? You look like shit. He did notice that though, he was looking at all those cuts."

"Huh. I wonder why he didn’t say anything."

"Maybe I scared him off? Maybe he knows you’re tougher than he is?"

It was Bex’s turn to scoff. "Pfft."

"Maybe he’s respecting the fact you’ve got someone right now."

When Ronnie said that, Sam’s elbow tightened predictably where it was hooked through Rebecca’s. It brought her attention back to what Sam and Chris were discussing. Apparently Lassart was apoplectic, not only with her, but also a number of others who had moved to assist the task force people of their own volition. Rebecca was torn if she felt this was a good thing or not. It meant he was going to be more wound up, but maybe he’d be too busy with everyone else to cause her any misery. Whatever, she was tired and well past giving a flying fuck about him.

The group fell quiet in acknowledgement as a soldier with lieutenant’s bars approached. Pat introduced him as "L-T Fairbanks", the ranking officer in the caravan. Fairbanks pre-empted Ronnie’s salute — he actually went first in a deviation from usual protocol. She wasn’t in a standardized uniform, so that also indicated he knew at least something of her background… Rebecca didn’t think she saw him in the background when Seb saluted Ronnie.

Then, he shook hands with the rest of them in turn. "Thank you all for coming to our aid. We were hard pressed, no doubt. A little humbling perhaps, us supposed military professionals getting very much rescued by civilians — mostly civilians, sorry Gunny — but I truly appreciate the further casualties you saved my people from."

As he let go of Rebecca’s hand, she fumbled to say something about all being in this together, and Sam perked up beside her with a "Happy to help!" when he commented upon the ingenuity in their arsenal. He even had compliments for the well-managed supplies in a time of scarcity for Christine, and the impressive water management and distribution for Pat. Clearly he’d done some homework on what they each did.

Their conversation drifted to Ronnie and Chris’ worlds, re-establishing security and coordinating mutual aid. Ronnie stepped over to Rebecca and Sam during one of Chris’ parts. "I’m going to finish up here and then go see to Barry’s people. Why don’t you two leave the heaviest of your gear where it is in our new ride, and go get cleaned up?"

Rebecca ran her hand across her forehead and gave the grime that came off a disgusted look. Also, now that all the adrenaline was metabolizing out, ow. She was really starting to feel all of her little collateral injuries and muscle fatigue. The stiffness in Sam’s movements beside her hinted the same. Yeah. Some post-apocalyptic spa time sounded great.

**

Sam sighed to herself. Well, shit. That was fucking terrifying but could have been a lot worse. Granted, she didn’t know what kind of losses the army/marine types camped out on their doorstep saw, and she felt a twinge of guilt at the overwhelming relief that she and her peeps were okay. Well, mostly okay. Last time Remy had come home hurt, it had pretty much been one spot. Not terrible thank GOD but still pretty gnarly. This time her face, forearms, and even her exposed fingertips had a myriad of nicks and scratches. At one point Sam lifted their grasp of each other’s hand, examining the lightly tanned fingers entwined in her melanin-challenged smaller ones, dismayed to see the scraped knuckles and nasty little rip at the base of a nail. Usually she was content to explore the still slightly foreign calluses and longer fingers of her buddy-turned-girlfriend’s hands idly by feel when they sat and talked, or watched Rufus frolic like an oaf, but now she was exquisitely careful to let Remy choose the finger placement and restrain the urge for little passing caresses.

Then there was that gash above her collarbone, front to back. Clearly, sharp debris had gotten inside the neckline of her armor. What if it had been a couple inches further in, or if she’d been turned another direction? At least the backs of Rebecca’s hands had been fully protected by her gloves, and Sam kissed one softly as they worked their way down to and across the underpass area.

**

Rebecca’s mind wandered to what tidbits she could remember from the core psychology and human development classes from her interrupted education, wondering if she could dust off any scientific backing for her fuzzy thoughts. There was something primally comforting, perhaps even neotenic, harkening back to early childhood memories, about being bathed by someone else. She hadn’t dawdled by any stretch of imagination in the barely tolerably tepid showers, but Sam still made it out first. Unsurprising, Rebecca supposed, since Sam had dramatically less crap caked into her hair and pores. Maybe their next firefight could be somewhere tidy? A semiconductor manufacturing lab perhaps?

Now she sat in the workshop, where Sam had arranged a stack of medical supplies and clean rags, two sizable buckets, and multiple insulated water bottles. Sam wrapped her in a blanket under her arms, sat her in a (thankfully padded) steel folding chair, and then perched lightly on Rebecca’s knees facing her, her own knees bent on either side of the chair and her toes on the floor, supporting a little of her weight. Rebecca carefully held a reusable ice pack wrapped in a clean shirt against the spot a pinched nerve was hurting Sam, and idly traced her fingertips over the tattoo where Sam’s shirt was rolled up over her ribs.

Meanwhile, Sam was methodically dipping a clean washcloth in one bucket, its temperature moderated by additions of hot water from the bottles, and squeezing it over Rebecca’s skin to wet an area. Then she would use another cloth to carefully wipe and dab the encrusted dirt, dust, tiny splinters, and dried blood away. Those cloths got squeezed into the second bucket and discarded when they became more soiled than where she was working, and sometimes once she had an area clean, she would tsk disapprovingly and pick up a pair of tweezers when there was a splinter to extract. Rebecca really hoped Sam hadn’t carried the water-filled buckets herself with her back hurting… but convinced herself Sam was feisty enough to enlist help, or clever enough to find a little cart or something.

The gash on Rebecca’s shoulder had really hurt to clean, but afterwards, when Sam had dabbed it dry with gauze, applied something-caine (lido? benzo?) laced Neosporin, and bandaged it, she’d cradled Rebecca’s head against her chest. The way she was tenderly wiping Rebecca’s shoulder blade clean with a warm washcloth was incredibly soothing. Maybe they could do this someday WITHOUT being shot at?

When she spoke to mention the idea, the airflow of her breath close to Sam brought whiffs of faintly hinted cinnamon to her nose again. (Okay, girl seriously must have her own bottle of soap she was playing mixologist with somewhere. Maybe she could find some accents of her own?) Sam liked the idea, if her happy little hum and the kiss she planted on Rebecca’s hair was any indication. Rebecca was self-conscious about that part, as she hadn’t been able to do much to clean her head in the cooling water with only one hand she could really lift overhead. But Sam didn’t seem to mind, given how she nuzzled her cheek against it after.

This only brought Rebecca’s face in closer against the base of Sam’s neck, and she felt seriously at risk of drifting off to sleep with dreams of pie, ice cream, and cinnamon buns. And cinnamon twist doughnuts. And cinnamon sugar on toast. Cinnamon in coffee like one of her mentors liked to do. And those apple-scented candles with cinnamon sticks all along the sides from that little shop downtown…

She didn’t know how long Sammie had let her stay like that, but eventually she realized one of Sam’s hands was resting on the skin of her back while the other caressed the back of her head…

Rebecca pulled back to consciousness and looked up, blinking. "Oh, I’m sorry Rosie… I guess I was drifting…"

Sam bumped her forehead with hers gently in light reprimand. "Shush. I know, dummy. I heard your breathing change and your hand back there finally stopped trying to tickle me. Do you realize how difficult it is to give first aid with that kind of distraction? Maybe I should have let you fall asleep before trying to clean you up."

Rebecca could see the levity in Sam’s eyes even as she scolded her. She chuckled weakly and started to apologize again, but Sam stopped her with a finger on her lips. "I said it was challenging. I did not say that it was unpleasant. But, come on. We’re tired, and I think we both need to be horizontal and unconscious."

Rebecca groaned her assent, and Sam helped her slip into a worn flannel button-up that actually somewhat fit. It was a little snug, but Sam must have used it as a full nightshirt or short robe, it would probably easily reach her thighs, and she’d practically swim in the fabric. "Remy, honey, I know you’ve only got one and a half arms right now, but I can’t bend over. Can you help put the cot back down? I'm sorry, but I don’t think I should lie on the floor tonight. If that means you wanna go back…"

Rebecca interrupted her. " 'Shut up, dummy.' Then I’d have to carry all my crap back. And who will protect you from a slobbering dog if Trent or Ronnie drop him off?" She knocked the cot down onto its feet and locked its rails again, using her legs as much as possible.

"Oh, my hero. I would swoon if it wouldn’t hurt."

"It’d be even worse when I dropped you."

Sam sighed. "Aren’t we a sorry mess. I guess we’re stuck with each other." She sat down carefully on the cot after Rebecca tossed her sleeping bag onto it, one handed.

"Oh, Rosie. Nobody else with put up with your snoring. The cuteness would be fatal to them."

Sam put on an offended air worthy of a high school drama audition. "MY snoring? If we had a couch, you’d be sleeping on it!" (Rebecca decided not to mention that a nice couch might be an upgrade, and just shook her head.)

Sam pivoted halfway onto the cot, but winced as she tried to lean back — apparently controlling her descent used muscles that were very upset right now. Once the nerve inflammation settled the fuck down it’d be nice to get some heat on them. Oh, uhm, okay. Speaking of warm. Rebecca’s hands suddenly were on her lower back and between her shoulder blades, lowering her gently to the cot. Sam reached for Rebecca’s cheek once she was level, palming it and stroking lightly with her thumb and blinking back a tear that she didn’t know the origin of. Exhaustion maybe? But she closed her eyes and sighed when Rebecca leaned over and kissed her forehead, returning the same caress before pulling away.

Sam heard the rustles of movement, the click of the light turning off, and the thump and shifting of Rebecca settling next to the cot, just below Sam’s right. She reached over, carefully fumbling and questing for Rebecca’s head until she found her and started caressing her hairline.

"Hey, Rosie?" Something about Rebecca’s voice in the darkness gave Sam butterflies.

"Yeah, babe?"

The response took a moment, like Rebecca was deciding something important. The butterflies got more agitated.

"I love you."

Aforementioned metaphorical lepidopterans went positively apeshit and another tear leaked out of the corner of her right eye. "I know. No, wait, I’m sorry. I couldn’t pass up the reference, it was just too good of a chance. I love you too, Remy. I really do. Thank you for letting me in. I hope I make you happy." She traced the edges of Rebecca’s face by feel, first down one side with her fingertips, then with the other with the backs of her knuckles. The butterflies spazzed again when Rebecca’s fingers brushed by her own.

"You do, Rosie, you so do. But just for the record, *I* am the one with the Princess Leia hair, by your own doing. Get it straight if you’re going to stick to your nice short easy to clean maintain hair, there are certain privileges I get to keep for my troubles."

Sam made a little noise between a hum and a chuckle, and after several moments, thought of a reply. "What if I help you wash it?"

Rebecca didn’t reply though, and Sam listened for a few moments more before she could make out the sound of slower rhythmic breathing. She’d just have to try it sometime and find out.

**

It wasn’t clear who woke first in the morning, but it was a near enough thing that the first few sounds of movement started to rouse the other. Rebecca had propped herself up to lean against the cot and was fidgeting with a sweatpants leg that had twisted overnight. Sam was still luxuriating in the sensation — or lack thereof — from her back not supporting any weight, and was fiddling with a twist of hair behind Rebecca’s right ear. They both had pensive expressions on, and Sam took the initiative.

"Y’know… I’ve only ever heard you mention Jaime. Was there anyone else?"

Rebecca turned her head a little. "Not like him. There was the one who didn’t ask me to go with him when we were applying for schools… which kinda brought about the end of that. Then … ugh. I got cheated on pretty bad before college — the asshole was sleeping with TWO other girls I was casual acquaintances with, telling all of us we were his first and only. Months of tests worrying about incubation periods later… thank god Mom was supportive of birth control, even if it was originally for periods and acne. Poor Cici was way more freaked out, and her parents… let’s just say they didn’t help the situation much. Anyway. I was pretty walled off after that, for the next couple years. Jaime surprised me really, I think because he was so up-front about things he didn’t really even have to mention." She sighed, and waved off Sam’s apology. "It’s okay. Miss him but not wallowing in it. Enough that it doesn’t make us seem potentially unhealthy for me, not enough to be digging myself into a hole. Uh, more of a hole. You know what I mean."

Sam wasn’t sure if doting affection would help right then or not, so she changed the subject… or at least moved ahead with where she’d been headed in the first place. "What about… well, have there been other ladies in your life?"

"Heh. There was one chick in Soc 112, in my discussion section. Black faux hawk, porcelain skin, gorgeous tattoos — all winged things. Eagles, a phoenix, even butterflies. I think there was some tension there… I guess her "fuck everyone who can’t accept people who are different" attitude caught my attention. We never got past the 'slightly longer eye contact than usual' and 'vaguely hungry body language and wolfish grins from her when I got flustered' stages." Rebecca added air quotes with her fingers where appropriate in her description.

Sam chuckled. "Well. You are pretty cute when I trip you up."

"Very funny. Maybe one more group project would have gotten… interesting, but I guess she changed majors or something. Didn’t see her around next term."

"Mmm. So I’m the best gal you’ve ever been with then…"

"Well, with such a whopping sample size, I’m not sure the confidence level of the results is going to be very high."

"Hrmph!! But… are you okay? Do we weird you out?"

"Is this what this is about then?" Rebecca turned slightly to look back over her shoulder. "No… it’s different, sure. But feels good." She paused again, and Sam waited since there seemed to be more coming. "I mean, love is love, right? You and Ronnie and Rufus are pretty much my family now. Having more of that feels good." She couldn’t help a sigh. "Not much else does these days."

"Oh, honey. I didn’t mean for this to go that way. I’m glad to be, though."

Rebecca waved her hand over her shoulder. "Oh, hush. Do I get a turn with the quiz questions?"

Sam chuckle and started toying with that stray coil of hair again. "Shoot."

Rebecca shook her head with a little chuckle. "Well, actually, yeah kinda. Last night…"

"Wait, we haven’t really even 'done it' and we’re having two consecutive morning-after conversations?"

"Shush! Last night. With the shooting." She figured Sam knew what she meant and as deflecting with humor but this was important. "Just a few days back, you were worried about what would happen, and happen after. Are you okay? Am I okay, with you?"

The idle hair twirling slowed but didn’t stop. "… I suppose saying 'yes' too quickly would be a bad sign? But I feel like I am, right now. Maybe something will hit me later. But right now… there’s no way they didn’t have it coming. Shooting at you? Oh fuck no, you get the kaboom. Remy, you might have noticed, I’m a little protective you know, every time you come back from another misadventure BLEEDING."

"Really? Never really picked up on that."

"Apparently I need to yank that out for the next pre-mission lecture. Smartass. But… having been there… I get it. What you were telling me earlier… makes sense. Y’don’t fuck with my people. Or their people. We didn’t go looking to start shit. They brought it to us, so I’ve got no problem going all 'brother’s keeper' on them — and no problem with you doing it either. I’m sure Ronnie or Barry… you know, have seen worse. Complicated, messed up. But last night? No problems for me that I can see yet. I guess sometimes even the big stuff can be like that. Simple is simple."

Rebecca nodded. "Okay. I just wanted to check in. If… if it does start to bug you, talk to someone? Even if it isn’t me? Maybe Ronnie? She’s a surprisingly good listener, and she sure knows that kind of stress."

"I promise. Pinky swear."

"Heh." Rebecca reached up to make it official, and rested her head back against Sam’s hip on the cot. The hair fiddling felt nice, and her mind drifted off.

**

She’d gone home for the winter holiday break, after staying local for Turkey and Capitalism Days. There’d just been too much homework to catch up on, and too much travel time for too little downtime. Jaime was originally just going to be her token relaxation before she went all-in on the books. Mom’d been cool with her skipping Thanksgiving that year, but dropped hints like anvils about December, so home she went.

Neither Rebecca nor Jaime thought they were at "meet the parents" yet — but she’d shown mom a few favorable joint selfies, and was telling her about him in the car as they went grocery shopping late on the 23rd. She’d left out the part about the hookup app and supplied a little half-truth about meeting him at a food bank volunteer thing Thanksgiving morning. It was… sort of true. That was where they first met in person, as something to do together before heading to Mr. Tse’s hours later.

She could clearly remember the sounds of the snow tires crunching through the frosty crust as they clawed for the pavement beneath, and fiddling with the tasseled fringe of her velvety microfiber scarf when she nervously brought up his record, hoping that Mom wouldn’t slam on the brakes on a patch of icy road and kill them both. The reaction wasn’t so bad, really. After a few stressful moments of processing time, Rebecca answered a few carefully phrased questions about if his charges were violent, if he still hung out with the same folks and more importantly if SHE ever did, if she’d confirmed his version of things with public records, so forth. Rebecca’s answer about being introduced to a couple of his acquaintances when picking him up from some of his weekly meetings was well enough received — Mom hadn’t known there was an 'anonymous' group for gang members, but said one of her school buddies had found great success in AA for years.

They’d changed topics in the store for a bit — Rebecca was grateful that Mom hadn’t passed judgment and was taking some time to mull it over — and not grill her in public, beyond a few safe questions about what other kinds of dates they’d been on, if he was a safe driver… things a parent would incorporate into their mental picture, but mundane to passers-by and low pressure for her daughter in the crowded store where locals might recognize her. Good ol’ Mom.

On the way home came the cautious endorsement she’d been hoping for. A reminder about how Rebecca’s dad, rest his soul, had dropped out of school, but finished his GED years later and built his modest but successful and well-reviewed cabinetry business, and they’d met after she’d been left hanging by a slimy contractor halfway through the remodel of the fixer-upper she’d sunk her first several years of income into. Sometimes good things came from second chances, and if the two of them were really good to, and good for, each other, maybe things really were that simple after all the careful consideration and thoughtful evaluations. That, risks weighed, sometimes love was love.

Rebecca had been sure to wait until a stoplight before leaning over and hugging her mother tightly around her neck and proclaiming her appreciation and adoration.

**

Rebecca must have sighed or something, because Sam had moved her hand to her check and was asking her what was wrong. Rebecca blinked back to the present and leaned into the light touch. "Hi, Rosie. Sorry, I was thinking about my mom, and when I was first telling her about Jaime. I think she’ll… she’d… " Her voice broke, then trailed off and she swallowed hard.

"Oh, honey…. you don’t know either, do you? Come here." Sam turned a little and lifted her arms towards Rebecca, who rotated into a kneel beside the cot and nestled into her embrace. Sam heard her sniffle a few times and just held her, petting her hair softly and murmuring quiet empathetics for the minutes it took Rebecca to raise her head again. Her eyes were damp and cheeks faintly blotchy when she did.

"I’m sorr…" Sam arched an eyebrow pointedly and Rebecca bit back the habitual apology. "Okay, I’m not sorry. Thank you. She was going to head to her brother’s cabin in the hills. With all the infrastructure blown… yeah. I just have to hope. But, you’re 'good to me and good for me', which is what she would care about."

"Oh, Remy. Come back here again." Sam pulled Rebecca’s face close to hers again and kissed her repeatedly. Softly and gently, but things grew more heated, mostly with Rebecca starting the ramp-up. Sam briefly reveled in how important connection was in the face of loss as she told Rebecca she loved her… and then looked down for a moment and bit her lip playfully (her own lip, not Rebecca’s, although she definitely set that thought aside for later…) when she saw the partially unbuttoned neckline of her own shirt on Rebecca, wobbling slightly as she leaned over the cot. Sam looked back up and held coy eye contact as she toyed with the next button holding the flannel closed a few inches below Rebecca’s collarbone… at the same time she snuck a hand in the loosely dangling waist. Her smirk turned triumphant when Rebecca startled and Sam could see her own fingertips through the open collar.

"Told you I was going to steal second," she teased.

Rebecca’s eyes narrowed at her. "You’re very lucky that hand is warm, you little sneak!"

Sam taunted her with a feinted kiss. "Well… it can’t be that warm. Otherwise, you’re happy to see me." She rotated her palm just a centimeter or so in emphasis, and Rebecca squirmed and swatted at her hand half-heartedly.

Rebecca’s eyes glinted. "Is that’s how it’s going to be?" Sam made one of her trademark squeaks as Rebecca tossed the sleeping bag back, exposing her legs below her PJ boxers to the air, and gasped when Rebecca ran a finger down and back up her thigh and dove in on her vaguely cinnamon scented neck.

**

After things had… calmed down a bit, Rebecca asked how Sam’s back was doing.

"Hmm? Oh… achy, but not so bad…"

Rebecca’s reply was almost clinical. "Is the sharp twinging burning pain still there? Or just the stiffness and dull ache?"

"Just stiff and sore, doc."

"Har har. Scoot in a little, and then I’ll help you roll." Rebecca made a waving 'shoo' gesture with her fingers, and Sam dutifully shifted carefully towards the far edge of the cot.

Rebecca rose to a high kneel, tucked Sam’s right arm up like a pillow next to her head, fished her own left hand back behind Sam’s left shoulder, and gathered a fistful of Sam’s waistband in her right hand. "Three, two, one… roll."

Sam didn’t even have to put any effort in as Rebecca dropped her weight back down, flipping Sam up onto her side in a nearly perfect spine-stabilized first aid roll. From there, it was a simple matter for Sam to lift the arm under her head farther 'up' and finish the roll onto her front. She closed her eyes and smiled when Rebecca ran her hand through her hair once. "Be right back, Rosie."

Sam made a little contented sound but didn’t open her eyes until the curtains opened again and she heard a couple of clanks. They were from one of the insulated hot water bottles and the 'clean' bucket. Rebecca also carried one of the washcloths, but it didn’t hadn’t added to the acoustic signature at all. Because, well. Towel.

Sam watched through one eye as Rebecca folded the rag into a thick strip and soaked it with water from the metal flask. When she tested it against the inside of her own forearm, Rebecca winced, dunked it in the bucket of room temperature water, and tried dribbling hot water onto it again with more acceptable results.

The results were VERY acceptable to Sam — when Rebecca bunched up her shirt to below her shoulder blades and laid the almost-but-not-too-hot fabric on the visibly seized stretch of muscle in Sam’s mid-lower back, the sensation was downright divine and quickly floated Sam back into a blissful daze.

After the first reheat of the rag, Rebecca slipped one thumb underneath it to gently work on the knot, gradually increasing pressure as it loosened. She was definitely putting those anatomy classes from her interrupted kinesiology major to use — Sam thought she might melt into a puddle and soak through the cot onto the floor, and let out what felt like several happy minutes of nearly incoherent purring mumbling until there was a frantic scratching at the door and polite knock.

"USMC Devil Dog Walking Service!"

Rebecca chuckled and waited for Sam to finish her giggle before inviting Ronnie and Rufus in. Apparently, Ronnie was looking to have some fun at their expense — they heard the click of his leash coming off and then her urging him in. "Go on boy! Go find Mama and Auntie Sam! Go on, get 'em!"

The excited scuffling and toenails snicker-snacking approached them rapidly and Rebecca barely managed an alarmed "Oh, shit…" before he barreled through the curtain and rammed her headfirst, knocking her from her knees to sitting on the floor. When his tail smacked Sam in the face and she yelped, it drew his attention and he put one of his feet in the bucket of water as he turned to greet her sloppily. Rebecca barely managed to grab the sides of the bucket and contain the damage to a little sloshing, rather than her sleeping bag getting drenched. "Goddammit Ronnie, I’m pretty sure that qualifies as a negligent discharge!"

Ronnie’s broad grin indicated she found Rebecca’s indignation positively delectable as she sauntered through the curtain and plopped down in the armchair (Sam had re-homed the books to the dresser and elsewhere in the shop), giving Rufus an affectionate couple of thumps. "Oh, I’d say that round went exactly where I wanted it to."

During the gloating, Sam tried to distract Rufus with pets, or even just get him to lick her hand instead of her face. His gleeful tongue-lolling panting promoted a desultory "Laugh it up, Fuzzball."

They partially forgave Ronnie when she produced a lidded plastic bowl and two spoons, along with a water bottle. "I figured you two could share. Even if you don’t realize you’re hungry right now, trust me, after last night, once your stomachs wake up, you’ll have an appetite bigger than Rufus."

Sam paused after rolling over and propping herself up on her elbows. "As in… we will want food more than he does, or we will want a meal larger than he is?" Rebecca grinned as she sat on the edge of the cot, and Ronnie simply winked at Sam.

Rebecca started to work the lid off of the container. "What time is it anyway, Ronnie?"

"About eleven-thirty. Be glad you’re my friends, not my command. You’d be having a very unpleasant day instead of breakfast leftovers mixed with the first servings of lunch in bed."

Rebecca fumbled her spoon at that, but recovered it from the bowl. She hadn’t expected what was effectively scrambled eggs, hash browns, and lentils that were probably originally destined to go over rice to work together so well, but they oddly did. Also, whichever of Chris’ buddies who saw fit to loot an entire steakhouse of its assorted tableside hot sauce offerings deserved a medal. Or a steak. They’d probably want the steak more.

Both of them looked pretty sheepish about how late they’d dawdled, but Ronnie seemed unperturbed. She made small talk about what else Sam had learned of the mech’s capabilities and checked over the application technique and condition of Rebecca’s larger bandages while they ate. Rebecca stole a glance at the one on Ronnie’s arm too, and as far as she could tell, it seemed "squared away", as Ronnie would say.

At one point between mouthfuls, Rebecca admitted their gratitude for the food. "Thank you, Ronnie. You’re good to us and we love you, even when you’re mean."

Rufus watched hopefully the entire time, licking his chops every once in a while. You know, so they wouldn’t forget he was there if they somehow missed his transfixed gaze and expressive eyebrow spots as his eyes tracked the food’s every movement.

When they were almost done, Ronnie spoke up again. "So, my dears. Do you know what the single largest responsibility of a good sergeant is?"

Rebecca raised her finger as she returned her spoon for another scoop. "Exorcising stupidity in a 100 yard radius?"

Ronnie was mildly amused by her guess. "Heh. That’s more of a… what do you gamers call it… a passive aura effect. No, the most vital application of our divinely bestowed intellect — from God to St. Mattis to us, and our unsurpassed ability to get shit done, is to protect our people from the incompetence and buffoonery of higher ranks and institutions. We are the boots in their ass, but we are also the shield over their heads for shitstorms they don’t even know exist because of our intervention."

Sam chimed in from where she now sat upright, cross-legged on the cot flanking Rebecca. "This sounds like it’s going somewhere interesting… should there be popcorn? Hmm. Has anyone figured out how to make popcorn?"

Ronnie settled her weight back in the chair like a storyteller getting comfortable. "Goals, kiddo. Goals. Which is actually a pretty good segue. I had quite the conversation with Lieutenant Fairbanks into the wee hours. Coming to such an… assertive rescue made quite the impression on him and his people. Bex, that made a second data point for his opinions of you — Allie’s strong interest in contacting you, implying good ties to that little community, being the first."

Ronnie gestured at herself with a twist of her hand. "He already has the good sense to recognize the importance of a quality NCO. And then when he learned about how our little copper top… get it? Duracells? Never mind. Miss Technomancer here and her penchant for usurping enemy robotics…" (Sam bounced a little in the bunk and looked appropriately gleeful.) "… and improvised security systems, and power storage n’ distribution… well. A few years ago, he’d be trying to impress the two of you with the merits of the GI Bill. As things stand now, there are going to be some rather momentous conversations happening soon, which are going to hinge on a series of key facts — and how you feel about them in aggregate."

Sam leaned to put her arms around Rebecca’s shoulders in a distinctively 'summer camp best buds' fashion. "Sarge, you’re not making us write an essay, are you? Can it be a group project?"

"I am authoritative, not inhumane. And, once again, you’re lucky you’re unofficial family, not under my command, or I’d be giving you some Incentive Training for interrupting. Do you prefer pushups or crunches?" Rufus must have picked up on Ronnie’s teasingly strict tone, because both he and Sam made similar chastised expressions. Rebecca comforted them by patting Sam’s arm and putting the bowl on the ground so Rufus cold help dispose of some potential evidence linked to their tardiness and increasingly conspiratorial-sounding conversation, and Ronnie continued.

"Now pay attention. Fact: Fairbanks says that local command structure is finally reconsolidated enough to be effective, and to start investing in civilian settlements. There is a captain who has read enough military history at West Point that… yes, I know Bex. A woman after your own heart. Sammie got you first, and I don’t think the captain tucks her uniform our way. As I was saying. She believes that establishing a strong network of settlements will obviously benefit the civilian survivors, but also bootstrap a robust supply chain, meaning less time spent foraging by troops and remaining municipal partners, and more time spent providing safety and improving local circumstances, which just circles right back and frees them up to do more, etcetera etcetera etcetera. Hello, positive feedback loop."

"Fact: Central to this strategy is fostering key capabilities within each settlement. Food production, security, hygiene. Some of this will be education, but she’s also looking to JSOC strategies of embedding subject experts and advisors to uplift (and build relationships with) bare subsistence level communities. Get them from just scrabbling to get by to self sufficiency, even improving the nearby area themselves."

Ronnie continued to make her way through upheld fingers like presentation bullet points. "Fact: Broadway has above-average infrastructure and static security expertise. But, it also has a safe housing population cap problem."

"Fact: Addressing that will require expanding a perimeter that is currently highly dependent on pre-existing structures and 'urban geography' — transitioning to newly-built defenses and area-of-control security, especially during construction. The captain has a handful of Seabees and city utility people chomping at the bit to start, but has nowhere to put them here. Because Fairbanks is not an idiot — Lord bless us with intelligent officers and deliver us from uselessness — his recommendation back to her is that external encampment areas are clearly not secure enough, and until we regain force protection and projection capabilities, assets and personnel need to be inside the wire when at rest."

"Unaddressed goal and opportunity, identified by Fairbanks: Your old place…" Ronnie inclined her head towards Rebecca. "… has gobs of high-density residence capacity. Spartan to be sure, but sheltered from weather, low upkeep and easy for unspecialized individuals to incrementally improve. The empty commercial spaces provide wide, high-roofed areas that are, again, entirely enclosed from the weather and could be very suitable for work, storage, or even interim guest housing areas. The elevated rooftops, with interior access, provide excellent sight lines, and you even have rudimentary perimeter barriers. Chain link fence ain’t much, but it also ain’t nothing, and getting that much of it set up these days would be a monumental accomplishment. And, that fencing encloses a wide area of undeveloped flat, stable ground. Essentially, Fairbanks was practically salivating over the possibilities, but also saw a lot of gaps to bridge that he didn’t see solutions for yet."

"New risk: These Black Tusk assholes. This leads to a vulnerability: Your old neighbors haven’t dealt with them yet and are severely overmatched." Rebecca chewed her lip, and this time, Sam could tell from the accompanying frown it was a sign of worry, not temptation. Ronnie leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, and reached to pat Rebecca’s reassuringly.

"Wait for it, kiddo. Newly discovered recruitable assets: Three locals with recent and intense experience opposing the new threat. One with strong ties to the existing community. One with military field experience. One with improvised infrastructure experience and a tendency towards aggressive medical and hygienic assistance."

(Both younger women blushed and busied their gazes elsewhere for a moment, and Ronnie smirked while she continued.)

"Existing asset obligations: Arguably minimal and definitely offsettable with rotational task force elements deployed to the billets they’d free up. Leverage opportunity: Assets’ existing leadership is a buffoon and mutual satisfaction is at a notable simultaneous low." She grinned at the other two.

"That’s right, I see those gears turning. I guess we could toss in some comment about Rufus, but I’m not sure he could reliably be pitched as more than a visual deterrent and dish pre-cleaner." She reached down to ruffle his ears. "Probably better long run for leftovers to go to compost, from a purely strategic perspective. But I’d say he helps morale and security."

Rebecca spoke for the first time in several minutes. "Query: who would break the news to Lassart?"

Ronnie grinned. "That requirement has already been considered. What’s that quote you like about the forceful, sneaky, and patient samurai warlord guys? 'Make the bird want to sing'? Mr. Lassart will be guided into thinking he makes the decision for himself, in the interest of the greater good of both settlements, and solving multiple problems at once, all while feeling like it makes him look good."

"You make it sound like a toupee with that last part. You may be my big damn hero, Ronnie. But…" Rebecca paused and turned her head so she could see Sam’s face close by out of the corner of her eye. "Rosie, I don’t want to make this decision on my own, or for you. I think the one possibility the military masterminds didn’t consider is if one of us wants to go, and one wants to stay. I only just found you."

Sam kissed her on the cheek. "Oh, Remy. You’re so silly sometimes. You only just NOTICED you’d found me. And, point of order, I actually dispute who gets to claim responsibility for finding who."

Ronnie outright laughed at them both. "You two are talking about it like you’re claiming responsibility for something good, not a psychological attack on the rest of us who have to watch and listen."

Sam grew indignant and whacked Ronnie’s knee (using her pillow to extend her reach). "You hush! We are an inspirational tale of joy in dark times!"

Rebecca scoffed at them both. "Ronnie, please stop distracting my girlfriend from the serious… ok, well, important, conversation I’m trying to have with her about our relationship. Rose, my love, have I said all the right words to reclaim your full attention?"

Sam wrapped her arms back around Rebecca, this time around her waist, and crooned into her ear. "Mmm… 'my love'… you have me fully enraptured." She definitely enjoyed how pained Ronnie looked.

"Finally. You’re more entrenched, you have more roots here than me. If it wasn’t for me, would you want to go?"

Sam harrumphed. "That… is a trap. It’s a specious and fallacious place to ask a question from, because that is not, and will not be, the situation. I do get and appreciate what you’re trying to say though, so I’ll play along. Serious Sam mode… heh. I didn’t seek this place out, I landed here. I’ve built all the really major things I wanted to or can. I’ve been content enough, even relatively comfortable. But it would be great to build all kinds of new stuff, fun to meet your old friends, make some new ones amongst the subsequent arrivals. And you…"

She reached up and poked Rebecca on the nose for emphasis. "You’re what I haven’t had. Well, you and Rufus. Just don’t ask me to choose between the two of you, THAT would be unfair. So that’s 'yes', if you really need me to dumb it down."

"Rosie, I’m a realist. I know Rufus would win over me." (His name had been said twice, so now Rufus was really wondering what was going on, snuffling around amongst them for food and pets.)

"I gotta say, I expected you to be a little more excited than that." Sam shook Rebecca lightly in her arms.

"I’m being mature and serious. Otherwise Ronnie won’t believe we’re thinking it through sufficiently and complain we’re too juvenile and cutesy." Ronnie groaned and rolled her eyes.

"Ohhh. I see what you did. My clever girl…" Sam kissed Rebecca behind her right ear for her own amusement — it worked out better than she’d hoped, because the squawk and subsequent squirming drew Rufus’ enthusiastic attention.

"Gah!" Rebecca looked to Ronnie. "Thanks for leaving me two-on-one. But that’s contingent yes’s from us two. What about you? What do you want?"

"Well, that’s a question you always reply to with something about a rocket ship and a pony, isn’t it? A Latin woman with curves for days and world peace. My two front teeth. A Red Ryder BB Gun and another pair of APEL-approved goggles."

"Come on, you’re supposed to be the mature example for us, aren’t you? Seriously…"

Ronnie shook her head slightly at Rebecca. "Even my formerly unassailable character stumbles when you two start playing off of each other. It’s not my fault you weren’t paying attention, though. I want to help make things better again, but I also hope we can get to the point I can think about setting down my sword once in a while, finding a beer and some ice somewhere, socializing a bit. Never going to stop being an awe-inspiring applier of boots to ass, but I’d like to push things past the point that has to be a full time thing. And, the Cap’s plan, y’know, it’s about time someone came up with a way to start chipping away at the big picture. It’s just the right blend of audacious and practical. We’ll never make a comeback if we don’t push past subsistence living and start fixing little things to enable us to start fixing big things."

"So, fuck yeah, I want in. Especially since now that looking after you two lost urchins is no longer a mutually exclusive proposition, and I no longer have to do it on my own."

"Ah, there’s the mama bear finally." Rebecca reached out to Ronnie, and Sam shifted to follow suit.

The redhead beckoned with her now free hand. "Come on in, Sarge. Bring it in. We won’t tell."

Ronnie leaned in and grappled the two of them in a bone-straining bear hug. Rebecca spoke up over her shoulder. "Goals, Ronnie. We will kick all of the asses and then set out on a quest to find Leonard a microbrewery kit and you a nice señorita to share the spoils with." Ronnie’s hearty warm chuckle resonated between all three of them.

"My girls. Okay. Play along when you spot your cues, but don’t let on that this is a coordinated campaign. Yes, I know Sun Tzu has a quote about feigning chaos when there is order, calm down, Rebecca Marie Clinton. And you, Samantha Rose Conroy, better make darned sure you understand all of the references and antics you’re in for with this one."

Sam was far too lost in a private tornado of rampant butterflies over the potential implications of hearing both of their full names in such proximity from the mouth of an authority figure to reply, but Rebecca had that covered.

"Ronnie, I’m pretty sure that THAT one has THIS one beat in the antics department."

"Yes, well." Ronnie disentangled herself and stood. "I need to go have conversations with another certain pair of lovebirds who’ve already shown tendencies of wanderlust. For NO particular reason." As she made her way-out of the sleeping area towards the door, they heard her muttering. "Jeez. Between those four… Cupid’s got nothing on me."

Rebecca made Sam giggle by describing her mental image of a tiny winged Ronnie with stripes on her shoulder and some kind of rapid-fire belt fed crossbow, but Sam got her back threefold with a suggestion of "Sergeant Snuggles".

**

The girls resurfaced at lunch for appearance’s sake, and tried not to let their speculation and anticipation show. Trent only gave them the gentlest of teasing smiles when they returned the empty food container. He’d occasionally encouraged Rebecca to consider finding someone in the prior months — had he known something before she did? She thought his "you never know, someone might be closer than you think" speech was either just cliché or his own initial forays, but he’d never followed up, so she’d forgotten them for a time. She supposed he was the closest thing to a bartender they had…

When she was summoned to a gathering with most of the tactical elements from the night before — excluding Sam, interestingly, though Rebecca later spotted her watching from the overpass — she detoured to collect her gear, feeling a little sheepish for not having seen to it yet, and regretful about throwing that much lead through Felicia so quickly. But self-care was important, right? Her speech to Lassart about the metaphorical saw had been inspired by Ronnie’s prior comments about needing to maintain her own well-being just like all her hardware. And, Ronnie had assured her back when she was using the M4, Felicia’s more "basic" cousin, that it was a tool and a workhorse, so maybe some of that robustness followed family lines?

She’d made sure to be insouciantly focusing on running a brush, and later patches, through Felicia’s longer, beefier-looking barrel when Lassart as much as singled her out. When the spotter wounded during the firefight spoke up to reject the implication his injury was her fault, and declared she had in fact probably saved his life, she had just dropped the firing pin back into the bolt carrier and paused to look up at him. She gave him a warm smile, complete with fractional head tilt and slow blink, as she mouthed '"Thank you" to him.

She’d have to check in on how he was doing later, she knew some medical facilities used to have morale animals on staff, so maybe she’d bring some treats for him to feed Rufus. And damned well remember his name, even if she had to take notes.

Her smile vanished, replaced by her intentional "R.B.F." when Lassart somehow dismissed her defender’s support, and she went back to installing the firing pin’s retaining clip. When she clinked the bolt back and forth within the carrier, she noticed a slight hump on the cam path that rotated the bolt to unlock it from the firing chamber that wasn’t present in her M4. Maybe it was some sort of mechanical timing tweak? She’d have to ask Ronnie about it later.

Speaking of Ronnie. Oh man. As Rebecca nestled the top of the carrier into the long neck of the charging handle and let the whole assembly clack home into the upper receiver, Lassart fucked up. All the way up, when he tried to remind "Miss Ellis" what he’d said about controlling her partner. Ronnie’s voice was ice when she informed him her "first name" was "Sergeant, Gunnery Sergeant, or Gunny", not "Miss".

Rebecca picked out the familiar sound of Sam stifling a giggle with a cough from above, and caught her own stoneface cracking with a slight rise in her eyebrows. It was the biggest 'Oh, snap!' moment she’d witnessed in several weeks, maybe more. Yeah, no, this definitely outdid when Chris shut Pat down hard when he loosely implied their little excursion had originally been her idea.

She let the rest of Lassart’s windstorm blow over while she reconnected the upper and lower receivers, making Felicia whole again. She’d originally been sitting cross-legged on a large crate, and she shifted. Leaning back, lifting her left knee upright, placing her left elbow atop it with her hand down across her body, she nestled Felicia into the braced crook of her arm for a few quick function tests, pointed off in a safe direction. The bolt racked smoothly each time, the safety/fire selector locked (and unlocked) the trigger properly, the bolt catch release operated as advertised, and now that it wasn’t accompanied by the sound and recoil impulse of firing a live round, she was again impressed by how crisp lil’ Felicia’s trigger pull felt. A clean 'clack’ when she applied enough pressure and the hammer sprung forward, the same feel every time, and a strong 'click' when she could sense with her fingertip as it moved back forward and reset.

She’d pretty much tuned out the rest of Lassart’s blathering and waited for Ronnie to wander over after that, brushing and shaking trapped dust from her gear. A little blood was crusted at the neckline of her armor, and she made a mental note to get in there again for a damp cleaning later. She’d also have to go "shopping" again soon, at the rate she was soiling sleek-fitting tees and tanks she could wear under her gear. She reckoned a little trip with Sam, popping in and out of fitting rooms for each other’s opinions, could be a fun stress relief. Somehow the anticipation factor of waiting to see how each outfit looked (or was received) made it sound more entertaining than just changing in front of… um… (she glanced up at Sam). 

…well, maybe watching her romantic interest partially disrobe repeatedly wasn’t the worst idea ever. Miiiight get unproductive fast, though. Yeah, yeah it would, and then they’d practically be like Chris n’ Pat. So yeah. With the dressing rooms. Just like normal people two years ago. Only they were totally going to blow the 'max 4 items' bullshit.

The aggressively filtered background noise of Lassart’s haranguing eventually faded, and Rufus’ galloping approach presaged Sam’s, roughly contemporaneous with Ronnie making her way through the dispersing crowd. His damp but unconditional adoration was a pleasant balm for the jagged edges of her mood, easing her grim countenance and helping her be more sociable when Ronnie started talking.

"Hey kiddo, sorry you had to sit through all that. It’ll serve a purpose in the long run though."

Rebecca pressed her mouth into a chagrined thin line before sighing. "I appreciate you talking to us before that, Ronnie. And you sticking up for me and having… uh… the spotter guy who had my back… here to do it too."

"Are you kidding? That was all him. He got into a BIG throw down with the nurse trying to hobble out here on crutches to put his word in, until his boys promised to help him, and that he wouldn’t leave the wheelchair. Some people actually get what you do. Remember all that about Fairbanks and his people."

Rebecca paused, partway into her reply and fumbled her way through the rest. "Oh… I guess… I was going to complain about how it would be nice to have what I do around here appreciated… but I guess that’s only a problem at the top."

Rebecca was looking down at Rufus, but Rhonda saw Sam’s jaw shift forward and her mouth tighten. The redhead clearly strained to contain her explosive interjection until Rebecca had finished her sentence, when the lid came off. "What? Remember what I told you that first night at the sh… after you last tried to talk to him about shit. Other people see it!" Someone… well, a certain "someone", had clearly lit her fuse. She was positively livid. "Where the fuck does he get off calling you an immature rogue? I was fucking ready to drop a big ammo can on his balding ass pompous cranium from up there!" She paused for a couple of enraged breaths, waving one hand forcefully at the bridge and resting the other on her hip.

Rebecca tried to de-escalate. "Actually, I never played a PvP rogue, carebear only…" … but it fell flat for once. Sam was not receptive and only hesitated briefly.

"What? I… where the hell does he get off insulting and berating people who put their lives on the line for this place, for the people here? I should… that ungrateful, insipid, rude, blind, self-important, deluded pigheaded gonorrhea-laden cock gobbling…"

"Whoa, whoa Sammie, hey now…"

"Rosie, hey, it’s…"

Ronnie and Rebecca’s attempts to slow Sam’s momentum-laden blue streak went unheeded, and Rufus’ ears flattened as he shrank back. It was actually Sebastien’s arrival that brought her enough pause to be derailed.

He’d approached from off to the side, and Sam paused and turned to see who Ronnie was returning a salute from. Fortunately, he seemed to read the room, and limited his physical interaction with Rebecca to an arms-length fist bump while he scratched Rufus behind the ears. After greeting Rebecca, he extended the same hand to Sam. "Uh, hi. I’ve seen you around with the Gunnery Sergeant and Rebecca, and kinda know of what you do around here by reputation — capturing bad guy robots included — but never introduced myself. Sebastian Dumas, Corporal, Army Reserve. Formerly, temporarily, and regretfully with the Black Tusk idiots. You’re Samantha Conroy, right?"

It took a good second for her IFF to register him as a non-target as her brain shifted gears, at which point she blinked and took a deep breath. "Uh, yeah. Sam, I guess. You’re the guy who helped save Patrick and Christine?"

He nodded. "Seb, if you want something easy to yell at me. I guess I am, but honestly, I look at that as kinda helping to fix a mistake I was complicit in. Not my proudest hour, that. But… that’s part of why I came over. I’m sorry to butt in, but… okay, that sounded terrible!"

Rebecca had no idea if that was totally accidental or if he was trying to deflect the brewing lightning with humor, but he managed to actually make Sam snicker a little. She wasn’t aware he’d had Explosive Ordnance Disposal training.

"Sorry. Yay for thinking in two languages at once. Thing is… I wanted to point out that our girl here doesn’t only put herself out…" 

Rebecca abruptly grew alarmed at the number of things Seb was saying that might set Sam off, worried he was heading in the wrong direction. English slang lessons, man! Urban Dictionary! There’s gotta be a way to get connected to it somewhere! The state Sam was in, she was well capable of arcing across an air gap to an oppositely charged target!

"…there for 'people here'. Sure, she was out looking to find and bring her people home. But firsthand I saw… she took a huge chance on me, just the same day I tried to attack her." 

She wondered if he even saw the minefield he was traipsing through…

"She wasn’t reckless about it, but it was a big gamble to trust me, to believe she’d gotten through. And she and Gunnery Sergeant Ellis put their faith in me, and I’ve been trying to live up to it since. I’m so grateful they rolled the dice on me, I’m so much better off now. I’m lucky it was her who kicked my ass that day. I’m actually super glad she did." Rebecca spotted him glance at her pistol holster — low and left on his old armor, with the scrape from her gunshot just past it — and smirked a little, but still glanced at Sam nervously.

"I mean, I guess I’m even somewhat glad she kinda shot me a tiny bit."

That seemed to finally snip the right wire, because Sam sputtered in mild amusement. "Wow. Glad she shot you. I can’t say I’ve ever expected someone to say that… as praise, even."

Seb grinned. "Crazy times, ma’am. God’s truth though. Uhh… you’re not going to shoot me for calling me ma’am like she does, are you?"

That actually got another only mildly derisive snicker from Sam. "No, but if you try to kidnap her again, I will fuck. you. up. A lot."

"I, uh… wait, you’re the one who builds the door traps and alarms and stuff right? I absolutely believe you and acknowledge I would never see it coming. I am taking a slow step backwards now."

The fact that he actually did it finally got Sam to grin. "Well, fine. Alright. But you see what I mean? Rebecca, you do so damned much, and it’s like Lassart’s the only one that doesn’t see it." Seb nodded in agreement as she turned back to Rebecca again.

Rebecca nodded in assent to her. "Yeah, okay. Thanks, you three. I guess the upside of 'everybody but Lassart appreciates me' is, well, exactly that. He’s the only one that apparently doesn’t." She held her fingers up in "air quotes" and changed her intonation slightly for the Lassart bit.

Ronnie capitalized upon the shift and took things home. "Exactly. And fuck him, he just doesn’t know it yet. Letting him have that little bullshit victory just puts him in a position for our actual play. Leaves a bitter taste, but I promise, kids. He’s getting played by his betters and has no idea. The best part is he’s going to practically thank us for it. Trust me."

Rebecca reached out to thump Ronnie’s fist vertically, then bump their knuckles together — without withdrawing. "Always, Ronnie."

Sam leaned in to add her fist. "You’re the best, Sarge."

Seb hesitated. "Can I get in on this, or is it like a secret badass club only thing?"

Everyone grinned — even Rufus now that voices had relaxed, but that was kinda his default state anyway. Rebecca spoke up first. "We can make you a junior associate acting member. Also, points for asking first." 

His grin brightened and he reached in. "Where the Gunnery Sergeant leads, I follow." He glanced around the circle, and when he was looking her way, Rebecca gave him an approving micro-nod. Then she had a thought.

"Hey, wait. Rufus! Shake!" He looked at her with a puzzled head tilt for a moment and then sat up. They had to bend to lower the cluster for him, and it took him two flailing swings, but he got it. "Okay, now we’re a cartoon superhero squad."

Rufus wasn’t sure why his people were so amused and happy, but he wagged heartily and grinned along with their laughter just the same. Happy laughing humans usually meant lots of pets and scritches, and sometimes more dropped food.

**

The scrappy gang dispersed a short while later. Ronnie off to link up with Fairbanks, Seb in tow. Rebecca and Sam lingered a little, still shaking off their respective huffs.

Rebecca was the first to speak. "We should… go do just about anything else."

Sam nodded. "Indeed. Fuck the last hour. Uhh… want to see how our guests our doing? Rufus the morale mutt could pay them a visit."

That got a little laugh out of Rebecca. "Are we really just his entourage?"

Sam hugged her arm and chuckled back at her. "There are worse jobs."

Rebecca loosely threw on the recon armor rather than carrying it freehand. "What I’m hearing is you volunteering for poop duty."

Sam smirked as she slung the Tavor over her shoulder and passed Felicia to Rebecca. "Are you kidding? I just take him over to one of those little yards within sight of the west gate and let him do his thing in whatever corner he chooses. Nobody else should be skulking around in there, so he’s just adding organic harassment defenses. Poop mines."

Rebecca rolled her eyes and their light banter continued as they retraced the route up to the parking lot, trying to leave the lingering traces of their unpleasant moods behind. They paused at the rear entrance to the encampment and took a moment to survey the scene in daylight. Brass and steel shell casings, some bigger than Rebecca’s middle finger, had been loosely swept into tangled mounds where nobody would slip on them. There was very little glass underfoot — she felt a pang of contrition and resolved to keep a watchful eye on Rufus’ path, not wanting him to lacerate one of his footpads. Sure, safety glass, but still.

They were surprised to see a semi truck with a low-sided trailer pulled up in front of the camp, in the street where the battle had raged the night before. It was painted in Black Tusk colors, so, you know, black, and extra black. Henry Ford would approve, but in the summer heat… yuck.

The trailer had a mix of roll-up doors and lowered ramp-like openings along the side, and looked to be a portable logistics hub with mostly empty weapon racks, shelves, lots of bins and crates, etc. It also contained at least a dozen jerry cans of fuel… or did, as those were rapidly being distributed to top off the surviving (and other commandeered) vehicles, with empties stacked in another pile.

Rebecca asked Rufus’ first fan and visitor — one of the motor pool techs, wearing a name patch proclaiming his name was Epstein, about it. While wiggling Rufus' collar around and straightening and fluffing the flattened fur beneath, he explained they’d found it several blocks away. It seemed there had originally been two by the looks of the immediate area, but the retreating forces took any other vehicles when they skedaddled. (That’s right, you run, assholes!)

They’d already checked it for any explosive surprises before moving it, and their comms people were going over it for any kind of listening bugs or tracking devices as it was inventoried. It didn’t seem to be a Trojan horse so far, and maybe the Black Tusk group simply didn’t have anyone left who knew how to drive a semi, but they were still treating it with a healthy sense of distrust. Apparently they’d even used test kits on the reserve fuel before distributing it.

Further on the subject of commandeered vehicles, Epstein proudly showed them how the Oshkosh armored truck from their "Valkyrie Ride" — his words, not theirs — already had intact lighting scavenged from the truck Sam torched the night before.

He was ecstatic she "so strategically dismantled" the rest of them that he had "at least three halves to work with". Then she left him the bonus of two intact Humvees, so even with the destruction of one of theirs and the city truck, they were coming out a little bit ahead vehicle-wise. He did lament that "the engine hoist had been cut down and repurposed" to mount the minigun and he couldn’t use it to get to work right there at the encampment, but he did appreciate being around to complain about it.

For a little while, he was so ebullient about Sam’s accomplishments that Rebecca started to wonder if she needed to start dropping territorial hints, or at least trying to save Sam from the fanboying, but he sobered quickly when Sam asked about casualties.

"We… lost two people, ma’am. One more was a close thing, but your RN really helped our corpsman out. I think there were three to five other serious but not life threatening injuries, and several more minor walking wounded." He nodded towards Rebecca’s bandage with that last comment, while her face grew unhappy.

"I’m really sorry we didn’t get here sooner. Maybe…"

Epstein interrupted her. "Ma’am, I don’t really have enough rank to say this kind of thing much, so I guess it’s really more of a polite suggestion. With respect, I think you should belay that line of thinking. The worst was absolutely in the first few minutes, and it would have been so very much more of a clusterfuck if you and your friends hadn’t shown up and handed those tuskfuckers their asses so decisively. If you’ll pardon my language, ma’am."

Sam arched an eyebrow at Rebecca in endorsement, but her girlfriend was distracted. "Tusk.. fuckers? Was that one word?"

"Yes ma’am. Again, please excuse my language. Fighting forces worldwide share a long standing proficiency in formulating derogatory euphemisms for their enemies."

Rebecca shook her head and genuinely laughed, as much at his explanation as the word itself. (Sam looked around, and made a note to tell Rebecca later that a number of the mostly male troops seemed to appreciate hearing a happy young woman in their midst, as she noticed more than one of them glance up, and then back to their work, looking slightly less stressed. There were a few straighter backs, and a marginal uptick in work pace around them. Regular USO act, they were.) "I hope I have your permission to plagiarize that, uh, Mister Epstein?"

"Lance Corporal, Ma’am. Lance Corporal Epstein. Or Douglas, when things are informal. And, absolutely."

"Thanks, Lance Corporal Douglas Epstein." She held out a hand to shake his. "Rebecca, and Sam. I think we’ve probably kept you long enough from your work, but please let us know if there’s something we can chip in on. We’re not military, but, we’ll lend a hand if we can, you know?"

He returned the handshake and nodded at Sam with another "Ma’am." Then, replying to Rebecca, "Nice to make your acquaintances. Thank you, ma’am. Surely will, and we appreciate the offer. Though, it is this Lance Corporal’s opinion that you and your friends have done much for us already. Semper Fi, ma’am."

"Semper Fi, Lance Corporal." Even though she wasn’t a Marine herself, Rebecca had spent enough time with Ronnie to guess how she should reply to him if she wanted to convey respect and encouragement.

Sam elbowed Rebecca after Epstein made it out of earshot (probably). "You didn’t threaten him with imminent bodily harm for calling you ma’am. Should I be worried?"

"Rosie, he was being nice! Plus, we’re outnumbered, so it would be tactically unwise to start something."

Sam shrugged and shook her head slowly. "I dunno. Maybe I should talk to Ronnie, see if she can put the fear of god and her in him, get him to stay away from my girl."

Rebecca groaned. "Oh, stop. And please, he seemed quite taken with your explosive accomplishments."

Sam piled on the mock chagrin. "And now you’re being jealous. It’s an ugly emotion, Sparky."

"Ugh. If you want to see sparks… if this was some crappy immature comedy movie, I’d probably challenge you to see who could kiss more soldiers or some crap like that."

"Oh. Well. I’m game if you… no, no I’m not. That guy over there, that’s just unfortunate. That mustache is just a hard no. I’m gonna have to stick with you and your distinct lack of extensive facial hair."

"Mmm, lucky me. But still, we should probably behave and not distract all the boys while they work."

They spent the next few hours staying out of the way, but hanging out in the encampment area. In between introductions and Rufus adorers, they talked of many things — stories of their parents, their childhoods, when Sam first had feelings for a girl, if she ever had for someone non-binary, what foods they missed most, whether they were more upset the Marvel or Star Wars movie arcs never finished. Rebecca was heartbroken she’d never get to see Black Panther 2 or Captain Marvel, Sam had crushed hard on Rey after she went all "I know kung fu on little emo Sith boy" (as she put it) at the end of Episode VII. They couldn’t pick the ultimate Marvel 'ship, but concurred that Poe and Finn, oh yeah, hands down. Could they get in on that? Even just watch them adoringly for days? They talked of many things, none of them Peter Lassart.

**

That evening left them on pins and needles. Ronnie told them privately in the workshop that wheels were in motion — even in Lassart’s head, in fact, now that the right seeds had been planted. She assured them that everything needed a little time to simmer, for him to decide the plans and points they’d raised were valid, and to fill in some specific obvious gaps himself. Then, he’d think so much of it was his idea and trip over himself to support what they wanted him to, but without realizing it was someone else’s design and digging his heels in. Oh no, Br’er Fox. Anything but that briar patch!

Rebecca had given in to hope and Ronnie’s infectious confidence, and begun packing a few things. Appearances were such that everyone else was welcome to assume she was just getting ready to move in with Sam. In fact, now she sat at the shop’s side table, one of Sam’s work lights shining brightly down, as she showed Sam some of her most prized possessions — Jaime’s sketches (which Sam insisted they should laminate, or frame, or at least find sheet protectors for!), and the Christmas gift earrings, which Sam ooh’d and ahh’d over appreciatively. The yellow gold filigree and contrasting white gold trim and chain definitely glittered prettily in the very directional LED light, but Rebecca confessed her piercings had closed up months ago. When she saw Sam fingering her own basic studs, she started to wonder out loud if maybe Sam should wear them, but that got shot down hard, in the fiercest tone Sam had ever used with her.

"Oh FUCK no, Remy. I love you and I adore you but those are YOURS from HIM. They’re gorgeous and were his last big gift… well, material one, to you, and I will not let you give them away to the first floozy to warm your heart for a month or two since him, even if that’s me! NO way. Not in hell."

Sam paused, sighed, and switched to a more tender tone. "Sorry. But still no. I get that I gave you Grandma Rose’s chain, and you don’t have something comparable to offer me back." She took both of Rebecca’s hands, earrings still in them. "One of these days we’ll be at a mall or something and we can hit a Claire’s, or driving past a tattoo place, whatever. That time comes, and I can totally help you get them redone. I doubt those piercing care solutions were a high priority for looters. Though… huh. Maybe we should remember that as a low-grade antiseptic."

Rebecca’s smile was a little bit wistful. "I mean… you do seem to have a lot of practice treating my wounds…"

"Physical and otherwise, m’dear. You’re so patchwork I might as well start calling you 'doll'. (Again… huh. Something to keep in mind. Assuming you know I mean it in love.) Anyway. You’re a good example of the whole patches and scars stronger than the original. I wouldn’t have you any other way… wait, that’s a stupid expression, and way Freudian. I’m going to stop trying to come up with clever things on the fly. But…" She gently closed Rebecca’s hands over the earrings and lifted the fists to kiss them. "These are yours, and THAT I wouldn’t have any other way."

Rebecca’s smile grew warmer. "Okay. You give me a lot to be thankful for, you know."

"Oh, I do."

Rebecca smirked. "Phrasing, Rosie. We’re already holding hands, there’s jewelry in mine…" Sam didn’t answer verbally, but her expression was full of mischief. Rebecca let the silence hang for a moment and then changed the subject. "Speaking of packing." She gestured around her at everything in the workshop. "How’re you going to figure out what to take?"

Sam shrugged and tilted her head in a "yeah, I know, it’s a lot" gesture. "Welp. I’m hoping we can do it smart, take my field gear and a bunch of basic wiring doodads. Technical term. We’ll probably be able to pull and re-use wiring from all the half-built places you’ve talked about… and hopefully keep things cooperative between the settlements so I can come use the workshop or ask some of Fairbanks’ people to bring stuff for me until I have a good idea what we need at each location to, well, keep the lights on. Literally, heh."

"Mmm. Fingers crossed Lassart is… malleable. He’s probably in the habit of saying no to me automatically by now."

"Yeah. Let’s keep the spark away from all that grease."

"See what you did there. But… yeah. Probably better that I’m not even on his radar."

Rebecca started to say something else, but her voice stumble and her breath hitched. What came out after was bewildered, even seemed plaintive. "Sam, I don’t know…"

That got Sam’s attention, fast and firm. Rebecca’s eyes were watering and starting to seep past her lashes in a prelude to what looked like would be some pretty heavy tears.

"Hey, hey… " Sam moved things aside on the workbench, remembering just in time to be extremely careful with the sketches. Little odd touching something her girl’s late lover had made and held, but she could dwell on that later. She pushed off the floor to sit on the table in front of Rebecca with her feet resting on either side of her on the chair, which put her in just the right position to draw Rebecca close and cradle her head against her, just below her own collarbone. She ran her hands gently through Rebecca’s hair on both sides, and kissed the crown and peak of her head repeatedly. "Remy, my dear sweet beautiful wonderful girl, what’s wrong? I’m here, I’ve got you."

The only reply was a couple of choked sobs, and Sam moved one arm down to rub her back. What the heck? Was this about Lassart? She tried really hard not to let the smolder that idea brought to her face translate to her voice or body language. "Rebecca? Honey? I’m worried…" She could feel a sympathetic stinging in her eyes and a lump in her throat. Reinforcements.

She reached for whichever of their radios was nearest on the table — Rebecca’s, from the worn casing and all the tactical presets — and punched the index number for their channel with Ronnie. She worried Ronnie might not have an earpiece in, so she restrained her transmission to a quiet "Ronnie, it’s Sam. I… we need you in the workshop. Not on fire, but it’s important." She paused, and then pushed the PTT button again. "Please." She hoped her abnormally serious tone would catch attention and hint that it was something about Rebecca.

She was rewarded with three deliberately spaced, clearly intentional clicks. So Ronnie was somewhere she couldn’t talk, but she’d acknowledged. Okay. Help would come but it was up to her for now. Sam was breathing, and as long as that kept going on, she wasn’t giving up on her girl — or her friend.

Uh… trace the signal. Find the circuit fault. "Rebecca… love… is it about Jaime?" A pause and hesitant tension like Rebecca was trying to decide, then a head shake against her and a sniffle. Okay. "Is it about moving? Leaving?" Same result. Hmm. 

Any sensors or indicators sending signals? "Okay. Do you know what’s wrong?" EMPHATIC head shake and a three-round-burst of sobs. Oh, hell. Uh… "That’s okay. It’s okay to not know. I’m here. I’m with you." Something system wide. "You don’t have to feel all this alone." That got Rebecca to lift her arms and put them around her on the table, pulling her closer. That was something of a good sign at least.

Short, or over-voltage. Something cooked. Let it cool and check again? Ah. "It’s been a crazy few days, crazy weeks. Lots and lots of things to feel and process. Some good, some bad. But lots and lots and lots. Maybe too much, which is okay…" (Well, not totally okay that there’s so much, but it’s okay that Rebecca feels overwhelmed. And she’ll punch anyone who says otherwise.)

Rebecca let out a small whimper, which made Sam re-up the slowing pace of her caresses. "Breathe. Breathe." Tandem reboot? Jump start? Clock sync. "Breathe with me, I’ve got you." Sam took a deliberately long, full breath. "Breathe, Rebecca." She decided to back off on the endearments, to de-intensify, and to wield a little gentle authority. She took another demonstratively slow breath. Another. There. Sam felt Rebecca’s respiration falling into pattern with her own. One choking sob, and then back towards rhythm again. "Good, good. There you go."

She held Rebecca and kept, well, buddy-breathing was as good a term as any for it. (That was probably an official thing in SCUBA diving, but whatever. She was dealing with a person, not a metal fire. Class D extinguishers and her lab fire SCBA training could bugger off for now. There would only be a need for that if she found out someone in particular had upset Rebecca this much.) 

Ronnie arrived a little under ten minutes later — Sam had to suppress an inappropriate laugh because she actually was resting her hand on the butt of the pistol at her side as she entered the room, relaxing after a quick scan of the room. (She gave Sam a quick "Well, can you blame me?" shrug.)

Sam replied with a "nope, not at all!" downturn of the ends of her mouth, blink, and eyebrow lift, then beckoned Ronnie over with a sweep of her eyes.

When Ronnie got close enough, she put a hand on her partner’s back, knitting her fingers with Sam’s. "Hey kiddo. I’m here. You know I have your six."

Rebecca’s next exhale was longer, slower than the rest. Sam quietly spoke. "Hi Sarge. Thank you for coming. I think maybe she’s just a little overcooked. Too much happening lately, breaker tripped and this is a safety valve venting."

Ronnie nodded and Rebecca didn’t contradict, so they stayed there for a while, holding their friend, still-new-and-shiny lover, and courageous partner, in the light, pouring strength and love into her.

Rufus got in on the action too, Ronnie had picked him up from where they’d left him happily at Trent’s. He quietly padded over and shoved his solid head into Rebecca’s lap, past Sam’s foot, and sat, with his chin resting on her thigh. Sam was pretty sure that dogs can tell when a good puppy pile is in order.

**

It took another ten to fifteen minutes of smoother breathing, punctuated by an occasional sigh, for Rebecca to resurface. She was still bleary-eyed when she lifted her head, blinking, and winced away from the light. That prompted Sam to perfunctorily smack the work lamp away on its swinging arm. Probably harder than she needed to, but it was bothering someone she cared for, so it got slapped like a drunk at a bar would. Maybe a little less angle, no english to put a spin on the ball, since it was above and behind her. Even so, her fingers were still stinging as she brushed several wayward strands of hair aside from Rebecca’s face.

"Hi sweetheart. There you are." Sam paused and smiled at Rebecca for a moment. "Wow. That was a good one. You blotch up real nice, and you don’t even have my freakishly pale skin. It’s okay though." She kissed Rebecca’s forehead and continued. "Everybody needs a good ugly cry once in a while. I’m probably overdue myself, the way things are out there." Ronnie moved her hand in a slow loop on Rebecca’s back while Sam went on. "But you’ve got your lil’ family here with you."

"Is little, and broken, but still good. Yah, still good." Wait, dafuq? RONNIE said that. Rebecca turned halfway towards her with a shocked and confused (still very blinky) frown, while Sam’s mouth was literally hanging open. "Sarge?!? What the heck? Are you even allowed to watch, nonetheless quote, Disney movies?"

"I continue to serve after my honorable discharge on a volunteer basis and have certain latitudes. Also, Gunnies have childhoods too, you know. We need to be in touch with them so we know how to yell at people."

Well. That was certainly better than any mental three-fingered-salute Sam was going to come up with to derail and reboot any spiral Rebecca was stuck in. Wow. And, trained tactician that she was, Ronnie apparently pressed forward with the advantage.

"Do you think you girls are up for some news? I promise you’re going to like a lot of it."

Sam looked down at Rebecca (who leaned against her again, but with her head turned so she could hear and half-see Ronnie). "Yeah, Sarge. I think we’re good for that." She smiled a little and nestled her cheek against Rebecca’s hair firmly enough to know Rebecca would feel it.

"So, Fairbanks is an officer and a gentleman worthy of my faith. Between him, me on his flank, David and Barry and Erik onside, and even Sebastien biding his time to apply just the right nudges about Black Tusk and their plans…"

Rebecca surprised them both with a little tittering giggle. "Hee… tuskfuckers…"

Both of the other women chuckled. "I see you’ve been off dazzling the visiting soldier boys… and girls, okay, with your charms," Ronnie continued. "He really did a good job of knowing and seizing his moments. I think he’s turned out to be alright. Short version, we had Peter eating out of the palms of our hands, Xanax-frosted oats and all. We got 'im. Fairbanks sold him on you…" (she patted Rebecca’s back) "… and me as the dynamic duo with ties to the military and the community at the construction site. Sammie here is vital to up-leveling their infrastructure and getting them onto a radio net. With repeaters at both locations, we’ll be dramatically expanding their radio range on this entire side of town, outwards for miles, and deeper into more buildings and tunnels too." 

Rebecca tightened her arms around Sam, who reciprocated as they listened to Ronnie go on. "There’s more. Chris and Pat are going to rotate back and forth between both places every two weeks or so, with the increased patrols they’re going to be pushing through. There’s definitely an opportunity for synergy — Lassart loved that word — between sites on the supply front… and all that open space, Fairbanks and his people are even hoping to try spinning up industrial agriculture for ethanol or biodiesel production. DeLoreans aren’t the only thing that can run off of leftovers in their gas tank."

Sam decided to try sprinkling a little perkiness in to see if Rebecca would metabolize it. "Ooooh, road trip! And ethanol means popcorn!"

It worked! Rebecca spoke up. "I bet Epstein’s in on that… I wonder if Leonard will find popcorn and moonshine an acceptable interim alternative to beer? Maybe with more volume, Trent can finally figure out how to make tofu and I can still get some boiled soybeans to munch on?"

Sam tried to preserve the building momentum. "If we get that going, I’ll have to prioritize enough power for movie night. I wonder if a projector or flat panel is more efficient…"

Ronnie jumped back in. "Well, aren’t we just the pillars of society’s return."

Rebecca declared that Wanda and Vision would make happy little cyborg babies if she had to film, produce, and edit it herself…

**

Two days later, and Rebecca still wasn’t sure what her breakdown the other night had been about. Maybe some of Rosie’s guesses had been right. Maybe they all were? She’d tried looking back at her recollection of her feelings at the time, once it wasn’t too much like poking an open wound, but wasn’t sure if it all had been tinged by guilt, or relief about the rifles or Sam’s warmth, or just finally safe-to-feel grief after everything, with some combat decompression layered on top. Even if she couldn’t pick it out of the swirling mess, she knew rationally that she must be feeling nervous about going back to the old settlement too. All those memories.

Oh crap, yeah. It might not be everything, but worrying about losing Sam, her Rose, just like Jaime, scared the shit out of her once she paid attention to it. She was gonna need to work on that, for sure… once she was on a little better footing.

Sam had definitely been walking on eggshells with her the day after, a little less on the next. Rebecca couldn’t blame her, but was glad Sam could sense the right balance. She welcomed her doting and coddling when she did it, loved it even, but pondered and appreciated how both Sam and Ronnie seemed to support her until she could get back on her feet, and then encourage her to. Babying her in the long term wouldn’t help get her strength up again.

Not that there seemed much risk of that with Ronnie around. She’d given Rebecca a few openly appraising looks, and blatant pauses in conversation where Rebecca could speak up if she needed to, and might have "completely coincidentally" been around more than usual, but avoided mentioning the episode in the workshop. Rebecca suspected she’d probably explain it away gruffly, but was grateful Ronnie so meticulously avoided embarrassing her when it counted. Rebecca could deal with some gentle teasing along the way when it meant having such an imposing protector.

That afternoon found her sitting with Patrick and Christine for a bit — Sam and Ronnie were both tying up loose ends, preparing and transitioning. Rebecca had searched out Christine to talk about packing the vehicles, and found Patrick there with her near one of the storage shipping containers. Christine brushed off her offer to leave them be and waved her over emphatically, to where they sat on a crate. When Rebecca pulled up a plastic patio chair to plunk down on, Rufus enthusiastically flopped over at her feet for a belly rub. He was a goofy mutt, but such a good boy.

Chris had taken off her Starbucks visor and was twirling it playfully around her finger, lounging against Pat. Seeing them happy together somehow cheered Rebecca a bit. Maybe she and Sam would be dethroning them as the local "adorably new" couple, but the other two were still in the game, for sure. Either way, it made her more confident things could go well with Sam, a thought she contentedly lost herself in until Christine’s words reclaimed her attention.

"I’ve still woken up a couple times in the morning, or middle of the night needing to pee, and for a few seconds, expected to have to deal with those shitheads. I guess my subconscious is still gradually getting convinced we’re not still in that fucking closet." Chris was replying to Rebecca’s inquiry about how they were holding up after their grand misadventure.

Rebecca nodded and chuckled. "Yeah, sometimes we’re surprisingly slow at learning something we already supposedly know. I’m a bit of a champ at it. Maybe the change in circumstances will help?"

Patrick nodded along as Chris replied. "Yeah. We’re hoping as much. And god, you said there were dozens of apartments semi-habitable? Private? So even with the new arrivals we might be able to get one?"

"Maybe even hundreds, really. Doors, drywall, plumbing, even sinks and counters and cabinets, though some of them might not be as far along. They were trying to figure out how to re-key the locks too, if a rubber band on the doorknob isn’t enough enough privacy for you two."

Both Patrick and Christine chuckled, though his was definitely abashed and Christine’s more lascivious before she replied. "God, having that much space will be so nice, even if we’re bouncing back and forth between there and here. And a private bathroom with running water… sure, we still have to very carefully not think about where the drain goes…" She paused for a moment, and made more direct eye contact with Rebecca. "But hey. Seriously. Thank you for coming to get us. And don’t be all 'you’d have done it too'. Sure, I would help however I could, but… maybe next time we go 'shopping' I need to find you and Ronnie some superhero t-shirts."

"Hah." Rebecca shook her head ruefully and sighed. "You jest, and yet I could really use some. To Sam’s dismay, I keep getting blood on my shirts."

A flash of guilt passed over Chris and Patrick’s expressions.

Rebecca frowned at them dismissively. "Oh dammit, stop it. I didn’t mean it like that. We all have plenty to dwell on, let’s not add to the list, huh? Anyway. I still remember when I was a kid, being disappointed when someone got me clothes, because all I wanted was something fun. Toys or whatever. Then, you grow up and have to deal with adulting, and suddenly it’s like 'Oh, someone got me socks, thank god, now I don’t need to go get more myself'." She glanced around. "Now, it’s an even bigger deal!" All of them laughed and shook their heads with wry dismay.

"Well." Christine grinned conspiratorially after a few moments. "Maybe I can find out what kinds of outfits Sam likes you in and arrange an intervention."

Patrick shook his head again. "Oh man. You want to let Miss Logistics stock a closet for you? At least you’ll be able to find that third pair of boots you’re looking for amongst all the other six."

Rebecca looked down at her low-top hiking shoes next to Rufus while Chris leaned away from Pat to punch him in the arm. "Pat, if Chris can find me a third and fourth set of footwear, not to mention more, I’m going to ask Sam if I can steal her away from you. She might let me if there’s enough toothbrushes in it for her." 

She looked back up to see Patrick rubbing his arm and Christine smirking at him, before feigning a swoon directed at her. "Oh, my hero who came to save me!"

Rebecca laughed and rubbed her own forehead with her fingertips. "Eh… Patrick, I think you’re safe, they’d probably gang up on me."

He laughed and took his turn to grin smugly at Christine. "Oh, definitely, that would be a thing."

"Hey!" Christine punched him again, indignant, then looked back to Rebecca. "But you and Sam. I’m happy for you both, you’re super cute together. You managed to land yourself quite the firebrand there."

"Heh. I’m not sure fire is her native element, but…" Rebecca had to admit to herself that she still got the warm fuzzies just at the mere mention of Sam in the context of them being together. It was ridiculous, but pleasant all the same.

"Okay, fine. Lightning rod. Tesla coil? But hey. I know you’ve kinda kept to yourself the past months, avoid the big group stuff. But if you need a friend, some non-girlfriend girlfriend time, I’m totally here for you too, huh? You’re absolutely squad now, or whenever you’re up for it. And, Patrick too, he’s a really good listener." She looked at Pat, earnest for a moment. "That’s actually probably my favorite thing about him."

Rebecca glanced at Pat, and he lifted his eyebrows and shrugged. She grinned a little at him. "Yeah, I notice he doesn’t even seem to be bothered by that thing like other guys, when we talk about him in third person right in front of him…" That got her a little disgruntled half-glare, but nothing in the league of what she routinely turned out for Sam and Ronnie. He’d have to practice more if he was going to survive hanging around with them.

**

It was a chilly and mind-bogglingly foggy morning three days later as their little exodus prepared to depart. The atmosphere reminded Rebecca of getting up early on the first day of a camping trip, trading sleep for excitement and an early start on the road ahead. Ronnie told her the general vibe did share some feel with loading up before a deployment exercise in Germany’s alpine woodlands, down to the MRE hot cocoa that Chris had passed around.

Rebecca felt driven to express her gratitude to Lt. Fairbanks and "LCpl" Douglas (Doug) Epstein, and spent the prior two nights baking in Trent’s ovens with supplies she’d begged, borrowed, traded, and raided a dozen local abandoned kitchens for. Even after attrition to desperate walk-ups following their noses, she managed a good four to five chocolate chip and sugar cookies (more of those due to ingredient scarcity) per caravan vehicle, and Sam jumped in with Grandma Rose’s secret oatmeal raisin recipe. (The trick was blending the raisins into the batter. Really threw people for a loop.)

One of Epstein’s colleagues must have possessed both some artistic talent and an arsenal of paint markers, because the "Valkyriemobile" was now badged as such in silver lettering on the rear, complemented by a simple but identifiable representation of a Pegasus-riding woman holding a rifle over head on the front left fender like B-17 nose art. Sam’s door was ornamented with three x’ed out SUV’s. All of the Black Tusk logos had been, well, blacked out with spray paint, except for one of the smaller logos on the rear, where it was instead supplemented with "better run!" like a sassy bumper sticker. As a finishing touch, someone with better handwriting had added "Sparky", "Gunny", "Rose", and "Rufus" in swooping cursive just below each door’s respective window, along with a lightning bolt, a Gunnery Sergeant’s stripes, a rose (with gold blood dripping from a silver thorn), and a paw print.

Just when Rebecca finished marveling at how they’d clearly been adopted, she heard Sam squeal excitedly from over by the semi trailer. She looked over and saw her watching their cannon mech getting loaded, and if she squinted, she could make out spiky, nay, thorny vines drawn on the hull and partial barrel shroud.

The art fairy was clearly a sneaky bugger, because when Rebecca came back from taking a closer look, there was a newly inked cookie with a bite missing below the lightning bolt. Well, at least she was certainly off to a good start feeling appreciated on her new adventure. She looked around trying to spot likely suspects, but couldn’t pick any out in the swirl of activity. When Epstein popped back into view from connecting one of the wrecked trucks to an even bigger military cargo hauler, she waved to get his attention. When he saw her and waved back, she gestured sweepingly to all of the art on the left side of the truck, and held up her hands in a heart shape. He laughed and replied with a thumbs up, so she figured word of their appreciation would get around.

Everyone she knew, and some she didn’t, circulated around to wish them well. David brought her the latest satellite maps (!) he’d manage to finagle. Months old, but still! She gave him a big hug and promised to send regular regional intel updates. Barry gave her a few ideas for watch and patrol schedules, all written out as drafts she could just fill in with names where he’d left blanks. Trent handed over an annotated and heavily dog-eared cookbook and a freaking goat femur for Rufus, and told her that as her official bartender, he was glad she’d found someone and totally approved. And thought it was totally hot. (She punched his arm for that as he laughed and turned away with a wave. Probably to go get a matching bruise from Sam.)

The wheelchair-bound scout clasped forearms with her, introducing himself as Riley. Rebecca thanked him for standing up for her, and said she really, really hoped he felt better soon. He was somehow firmly convinced that he would all thanks to her, and promised he’d forsake such heroic nonsense next time, in favor of solid cover.

That made her laugh. "I’m still working on that lesson myself, just ask Ronnie or Sam," she confided, and leaned in for a peck on his cheek before his buddies wheeled him off haranguing him about it. Well, whatever, he hadn’t needed to go out of his way to defend her in front of Lassart like he did.

Well, that spoiled her mood for a minute. She was studiously sure to be busily arranging gear in the rear cargo area of their ride when she saw Lassart circulating with his thumbs hooked him his belt like a pompous turd.

Her feelings improved when she saw Chris’ blond curls again, moving between the vehicles as she snugged up her visor to control her hair. They waved and exchanged a quick hug when Chris got closer and spoke to her. "Hey, you! Good morning. All these GI Joe types are really on edge, but you’d think with you and me in the same place, those other assholes would be too damned scared to show up again."

Rebecca laughed and leaned back against the truck, thinking just in time to make sure she wasn’t smudging any still-drying artwork. "You’d think. I’m glad you’re coming with us, even if it’s temporary."

"Oh, you can’t get rid of us permanently though. You know us and our wanderlust, we crave places we can find some privacy. And if it’s actually inside a security perimeter, well, then we won’t get in trouble with you and Rhonda! I hope you don’t mind us tailgating you on the drive over though. Apparently they’re letting us take one of the spare Hummers, and Pat says it doesn’t have nearly the fancy nav setup — or music, totally jealous, by the way — your new toy does. I just hope Seb doesn’t start singing '99 Bottles' or whatever the French equivalent is from the back seat."

Rebecca shook her head. "Oh, so he’s riding with you? Just threaten to shoot him. He’ll believe you."

"Oh, Bex. Don’t ever change. Oh, hey. Patrick and I are really looking forward to hanging out with you and Sam when we’re not getting shot at, especially if you manage to make more cookies. Yum."

"Hah." Rebecca smiled. "Deal, some double-dates sound fun. But, the two of you are going to have to help with ingredients. What’re the chances Pat can make cocoa plants grow here?"

"I don’t know, but if he does, I will damned well make it worth his while." Christine grinned suggestively. 

"Terrible. But, you and half the other women in the apocalypse, I suppose."

Chris chuckled. "Well, I won’t keep you from the rest of your fans since I still get to see you after this." Chris saw Erik approaching and waved to them both as she extracted herself.

He stopped by with a big Viking bear hug — thank you, recon armor, for uncrushed ribs — and, well, ammo. So much ammo. Some was heavier weight hand loads to try with Felicia, which he said might drop a little more in flight, but that the heavier rounds should "spin-stabilize" better in her fancy barrel and be much more consistent. And, when he opened the ammo can they were in, the first twenty were in a POLYMER magazine, as he was sure to point out. He didn’t want the first radio message to be Ronnie raking him over the coals again.

A few of the larger trucks had fired up their big diesels, idling in the background, before Sam’s voice came over her earpiece. (The goosebumps were from the weather, dammit. Couldn’t wear a hoodie with the armor!) "Ladies, look up. Ten-o’clock high from our ride."

Rebecca oriented herself and spotted a black quadcopter drone as the fog was starting to thin. Maybe 100, 200 feet up. Fucking voyeurs. She had the Tavor up front in a convenient spot by the driver’s seat that seemed to be meant for weapon stowage, but she went around back and slid Felicia out, racking the charging handle to chamber the first round. It might have been an interesting opportunity to try out the new ammunition Erik had given her, but not until she’d gotten used to any aim point variance.

Eye contact and head-tosses convened the ladies around Fairbanks, who was examining their visitor through binoculars. He grunted and lowered the lenses, offering them around. Rebecca took an initial peek and could clearly make out a sizable camera lens mounted beneath the drone’s main hull. No weapons fortunately. 

Ronnie accepted the binoculars next. "Not one of ours?" She sought to confirm what the three women already suspected.

Fairbanks grunted again (hmm, no coffee yet?). "Not unless it’s yours."

Rebecca shrugged Felicia at him suggestively. 

"Sure, indulge yourself." 

She grinned wolfishly, clicking her selector from Safe to single-round fire. As a courtesy she thought Ronnie would be proud of she glanced around and announced, "Suppressed weapon hot!" before turning to look at the drone. She imagined it focusing on her as she waggled her fingers in a little wave, blew it a kiss, then quickly raised Felicia, got a rough fix with the red-dot and shifted her eye to the scope, and put a round through it before the operator could react. When it twirled out of view behind a building in two asymmetric pieces, and Fairbanks gestured in tacticool military handspeak to detail three of his people to retrieve it, he replied to Sam with a nod that yes, she could have it for parts and study.

"Well," Fairbanks observed laconically. "I guess that’s our cue to be somewhere else."

**

Ronnie was pretty convinced that observations of their imminent departure would probably relieve pressure on Broadway — a view Seb supported over the radio from behind them. Meanwhile, Sam was talking on a separate channel with the convoy’s most skilled comms specialist, something about monitoring for any kind of location beacon or even audio bug broadcasting from any of the "liberated" vehicles.

The fog had gotten heavier again, and after Ronnie had done a quick swivel and tilt test on the roof turret and inspected the .50 cal thoroughly, she retreated back inside the cabin. She’d left the hatch loosely closed but unlatched as they tooled along just behind the convoy’s midpoint. Fairbanks wasn’t messing around though, he had armed and armored outriders on parallel streets, and vehicles that posted up at the sides when they crossed very wide intersections. With their vehicles’ mounted weapons, the ladies and their companion vehicle astern periodically took a turn in these rotations, depending where everyone was in relation to the more vulnerable vehicles like the big cargo trucks or casualty transportation.

This made for a bunch of leapfrogging forward and dropping back again, which was turning out to be great fuel-subsidized wheel time for Rebecca in the heavy vehicle. It would never feel like her little CUV, but it was one of those vehicles that simply didn’t care about trivialities like terrain and would just go wherever she pointed it. She couldn’t deny Sam’s accusation that she was enjoying rumbling past the trundling convoy on the 'wrong' side of the street, or hopping the sidewalk or center curbs to circumnavigate an abandoned vehicle… or even simply making careful contact with an obstructing vehicle and then bullying it out of the way. She didn’t THINK Ronnie did any stomping on an imaginary brake pedal in the front passenger’s footwell like her mom had — she was even still using her turn signals!

It was mid to late afternoon when they got into the familiar neighborhood. Sam noticed Rebecca’s gloves creaking on the steering wheel as she loosened and tightened her grip around it with apprehension, and leaned forward to squeeze her shoulder again. "I think this’ll be really good, hon. I promise. We’re with you, and even your ghosts are loving ones."

Rebecca reached back to put her hand on Sam’s for a moment, then switched to thump the back of it against Ronnie’s fist where she’d held it up, also offering supportive words. "You’re stronger than you think, cookie. Just 'cause you feel intensely and have a big heart doesn’t mean you don’t have resilience. Might give you more, even."

Sam, from the back: "That’s right! Listen to her, Allie and Leonard sound great. And hey, no Peter."

Ronnie, ever eloquent, put words to what they were probably all thinking. "Hell yeah. Fuck him."

Rebecca glanced back at Sam in the mirror, and Rufus, and then at Ronnie to her side. "I love my girls. And my dog." Now that she thought about it, Rufus was going to lose his mind with all the new exciting people and places, now that he’d gotten more confident. Maybe the kid up on five would take a liking to him too… that would be really cute.

The light had faded a little more under the fog, but the headlamps stabbing out into the mist were still more navigation and visibility aids than primary illumination when they nosed down the ramp descending to the blocks-wide construction site. The mist wasn’t as thoroughly shrouding down there, so she could see some signs of development — a few new planter boxes, piles of scrap material like mixed lumber, port-a-potty shells, those wavy corrugated plastic or metal roof panels. It looked like some of those were actually being assembled into rough shelters to store more of the same. There were also a couple of "new"… well, unfamiliar to Rebecca, vehicles. One truck (not Leonard’s) still loaded with tarp-covered soil that brought her a quick pang of passing grief, a midsized sedan with a flat tire, a mall security golf cart, and a few pushcarts and wheelbarrows attached to the same chain securing three prefab plastic garden toolsheds. Rebecca realized that it felt really good to see all these signs of vitality. She’d been a little worried about what kind of shape she’d find them in.

The bulk of the convoy turned off to the right, between the original building and its neighboring cousin, but Rebecca angled around them towards the main area. The brakes and suspension creaked as she brought the hulking brute to a halt just into the downslope of the loading dock, much like a little under a year ago. The engine grumbled into a slumber when she shut it off, followed by the main lights, just leaving the amber marker lamps active.

With a grunt of exertion, she unlatched and opened the heavy armored door, slipping down to the ground with a gravelly crunch. Walking towards the front of the truck, she pulled her cap off and set it on the hood, and twirled the loose slight waves of her hair back into a lazy knot to keep her face exposed. Sam met her from the other side, and Ronnie stayed in her seat but leaned into the gap between the open passenger door and A-pillar at the front of the cabin.

Rebecca saw movement on an upper floor, and leaned into Sam when she hooked onto her right elbow.

"Is it weird, Remy?"

"A little… but… might be good weird?"

"That’s my girl." Sam patted her forearm reassuringly, and rested her head on Rebecca’s shoulder, interrupted by fiddling with the pauldron in a moment’s grumpiness. "Ow. Pokey. Stupid thing."

Rebecca tried to shift so it was at a more favorable angle. "Thanks, Rose. For… all of it, you know?"

The "normal" door at the side of the dock’s roll-up opened and multiple figures stepped through, just as Sam replied, quietly but heartfelt. "Of course." (Rebecca wondered if there was an implied "dummy" at the end.)

She saw Leonard in the lead, and noticed the tension ease from his shoulders and hand drift away from the revolver tucked through his wide belt. Good man. Hopefully someone upstairs was watching with that old lever-action too.

"Oh my god, is that Rebecca?!?" Allison shifted farther out from behind Leonard, and Rebecca waved with her free left arm, calling back to her.

"It’s me, Allie! I, uh… brought some friends."

The Asian woman’s hair had grown several inches, and she had more of a tan, but no more wrinkles, just those same kind smile lines at the sides of her eyes. She jogged quickly up the ramp to embrace Rebecca. "You look good… tired, but…" She plucked at the armor, and looked past Rebecca at the massive truck. "Tougher. Wow." Rebecca thought she saw Allie’s eyes flicker briefly to Sam and then back to her. "Maybe… happier too?"

She turned more obviously to talk to Sam. "Forgive me. I got carried away worrying about her for months, and now seeing her again…" She held out a hand to Sam, who had let go of Rebecca’s arm as Allie approached, but not moved any further away. "I’m Allison, but everyone calls me Allie. Leonard…" (She tilted her head over her shoulder at the approaching group) "… says it suits me better."

Sam reached for the proffered hand and clasped it in both of hers. "Sam, Sammie, or Samantha. Your choice, really."

"Ah, hello…" Something about Sam and Rebecca’s mutual body language must have clued Allison in, because she looked questioningly to Rebecca with raised eyebrows and a hopeful smile. Rebecca gave her little affirmative nod and return smile. Allie’s eyes lit up with more excitement at that, and she added her other hand and some warmth to the handshake. "Oh, anyone who is special to Rebecca is definitely welcome here. It’s really nice to meet you."

Rebecca could tell Sam was touched — her dimples deepened and she blinked a couple of extra times. She herself was really relieved too, she knew Allie was religious but wasn’t aware of the specifics, and if she’d approve. She never seemed the fire and brimstone type, but… the last few miles still found Rebecca fretting about what might happen if there was any reluctance to accept or welcome Sam as her girlfriend… or after Jaime.

"She absolutely is, Allie. Thank you. Let me also introduce Ronnie Ellis, who’s taken such good care of me since I left." Rebecca nodded back to where Ronnie lifted a hand in greeting.

Allie flashed her a warm smile too. "Oh, thank you for that, really. I was so worried this world would change Rebecca too much, it brings me joy to see that light in her eyes again."

(Did she mean after losing Jaime? Or just after being away in the rough for a while?)

Ronnie smiled and deflected. "Well, ma’am. I might give the dog more credit for that."

Allie’s voice rose an octave. "You have a DOG? Where? What do you mean he’s still in the car? Bring him out!"

Ronnie called Rufus out from her side — the standing space for a turret operator gave him lots of room to clamber across and jump down from the running board below the open doors. He trotted over and sniffed and greeted each of them — Allie for an extra minute — before he took off running in a wide circle, enjoying all the sudden space and freedom. This left Allie laughing to the point of tears and the others not far behind.

**

Epilogues

The construction site settlement grew with a rapid slingshot effect. The next convoy to visit brought several unexpected items that dramatically expedited key projects.

The sole biggest surprise was construction equipment on extended loan. One was an extendable boom-arm forklift thing — Epstein referred to it as a "telehandler". It made an abrupt world of difference in getting heavy loads to the upper floors. Paired with that was a small civilian backhoe — bigger than a Bobcat, but barely a full-sized tractor.

Then, hundreds of empty sandbag sacks to start basic fortifications, and several odd kits consisting of large folding metal baskets and thick fabric liners that combined into open-topped cubes. Ronnie called them "Hescos", and said that even just a handful, once filled with dirt and gravel, would help them create some very solid cover at key locations.

On the cleaner side of things, a tabletop radio station, complete with a dozen individual handsets, to get effective comms off the ground. It wasn’t everything Fairbanks wanted, but they could upgrade over time once the basics were in. 

The roof was quickly encircled with and shaded by yards upon yards of camouflage netting, creating one large observation blind, hidden from exterior spotters and snipers, but ideal for their own. The sandbagged corner of the roof facing the main ramp and nearest street intersection gained an emplaced .50 caliber, and the other three corners had mounts for a single 7.62mm M60 medium machine gun that could migrate between them as needed.

A couple of Black Tusk’s standard carbines (eventually identified as "HK 416’s", which Rebecca commented just made the entire M4 / M16 thing even worse) and several surplus M4’s were donated to kick start their communal armory, and Ronnie’s expertise was crucial in providing some basic maintenance, handling, and marksmanship education. Multiple shaded, sandbag-fortified parking spots were built where the armored beast and the Humvee could be moved as mobile strongpoints. 

Visiting patrols were able to leave them a small amount of fuel every week or two, which made occasional generator and vehicle use much more feasible until their biofuels project, well, took root sometime in the future. Sam also asked them to bring her every solar powered traffic sign and roadside call box pole they could find, and that boom lift made arraying them on the outer lower roofs and linking them into a proper budding solar farm a swift accomplishment — especially since many of them already came with some form of battery. She still supplemented with more batteries liberated from boat and RV dealers, at one point bringing a load home in an actual RV. Apparently, that one had been "enough of a bitch to get the batteries out of" that she simply decided to task her team with siphoning fuel from same vehicles they scavenged batteries from, and "just drive the whole damned thing home". (It became guest officer quarters and meeting space for Fairbanks and the like, when it wasn’t being used as a kitchen because of its propane stove.) Long term, she dreamed of getting a Tesla Power Wall from somewhere, even if she’d have to figure out how it would hook in to everything. A "good problem to have", she’d called it.

In the meantime, she improvised dangling charging leads on the 25mm cannon mech (AKA 'Thorn'), and a dock for them to touch. It was too difficult to position it on top of the charger remotely, someone had to actually go watch it in person as they controlled it, but it was greatly reassuring to have that much firepower and 'bump in the dark' investigation capability parked at a warm ready inside a vacant storefront, especially once Sam managed to connect it to portable tablets, not just the mobile command station in the truck. She and Ronnie discussed potentially switching the cannon and the rooftop .50 cal for ammo availability reasons, but that was going to take a bunch of custom fabrication for the mounts and tinkering with firing mechanisms.

Rebecca and Sam didn’t feel right moving into the original place Rebecca shared with Jaime, but found a nice corner unit on the fourth floor. Rebecca had forgotten how long it had been since she’d awoken in sunlight until it happened, illuminating Sam’s hair in a brilliant luminous red as the usually lively engineer moaned and tried to bury her face the pillows, cursing the evil daystar. And oh god, a real mattress again… the first indulgence they allowed themselves with the promise of occasionally replenished fuel was a trip to a few mattress stores, bringing back several for everyone on Leonard’s truck and Rebecca’s old CUV.

It was weird being in her own car again, especially since the last person she remembered being in it with was Jaime. It helped though, knowing someone else had already ridden in it since then, when Allie and Leonard helped the new family move in. And, when she first approached it again, Sam offered to drive, and Rebecca rode in the passenger seat, which ended up being a gently bittersweet processing milestone for her, a little bit of a connection back to Jaime for a time.

Sam took Rebecca to a framing store where they picked out two for Jaime’s sketches. The one of her looking out the window hung in the kitchen — they were on the opposite side of the building, intentionally. The slumbering sketch went where it ought to - over a dresser in their bedroom, and the fifth floor kid’s drawing of Rebecca and Jaime hung in the foyer.

Rebecca hadn’t been sure why Sam brought back several additional empty frames, but it made sense when she surprised her with a mid-grade consumer inkjet printer that supported wireless printing from phones. The ability to print out photos of their memories and families, new and old, went a long way into turning their new residence into a real home — even with the unfinished construction. Drywall would get painted eventually, and rugs and fuzzy slippers went a long way to offsetting the concrete floor. Sam swore better hot water would come next, "come hell or high water, preferably both, because that would solve the problem."

She also made good on her promises about the earrings, and Rebecca now wore one on her left ear most of the time, with a simple stud in her right to leave room for an earpiece. Sam told Rebecca she’d always wanted to get her bellybutton pierced, so they had Ronnie help, as Rebecca was too squeamish with needles and the idea of using one on Sam. They only mocked her a little bit. 

She did, however, find an ornamented double chain that threaded through a decorative dangle in the front and fit around Sam’s waist quite nicely, the lower of the two chains draping down to the top of her hips. This led to many t-shirts, tank tops, and button-ups being knotted tight to leave her midriff bare, which caused Rebecca, and for that matter, Sebastien, all kinds of distraction — to the point they would occasionally catch the other looking at the same time, and mutually shrug. He never did or said more than that on the topic, so she didn’t shoot him to keep him away from her girlfriend.

Rebecca placed the matching cuff and stud earring atop Jaime’s memorial, and the awesome lil’ guy up there in the wheelchair took checking on it regularly VERY seriously during his "security sweeps" of the fifth floor. Sam rigged up some bicycle lights on his chair, which made his mother cry… on Ronnie’s shoulder, who had taken a liking to the kid and started calling herself "Auntie Ronnie" when on the fifth floor. Huh, maybe someday she could indeed put that sword down. If the way she took care of Rebecca was any indication, the kid would fare well with her around to keep an eye on him.

Speaking of the memorial, Sam wept openly when Rebecca first went, insisting Sam come with her. It really got going when Rebecca 'introduced' her, telling him aloud how she never saw things with Sam coming, just like him, and thanked him for keeping her safe when the world went to hell. She went on to tell him she’d always miss him, that she thought he’d really like hanging out with Sam, and that yes, they would totally get it on, the three of them, if he were there… and that she would always remember him as the man he wanted to be, and was for her.

Oh, and that she was deeply sorry about shooting Rogelio, but he really was being an asshole.

Life at the "Garden Fort" as it came to be known really did center around family building, genetic and otherwise, for the little knot of core residents. As they grew, they did encounter some problems with regrettable residents, but those turned out to be mostly self-correcting situations. Thieves didn’t stop before they got caught and turned out, and unpleasant people usually left of their own accord in the face of everyone else’s tight-knit cohesion.

Allie WAS late, and the baby was only a few days early — well in time to get to the nurse at Broadway. Rebecca had never driven their big armored vehicle so quickly but so carefully, and needed a few minutes to catch her breath after parking. Getting a pregnant woman into such a high vehicle was easy with the loading dock, but took a little creativity at Broadway. Allie was a little embarrassed by how many people leapt to help with the effort, but the enthusiasm about a new life entering the world after so much loss was infectious. The baby was born a healthy weight, just a little below average, and the world would know her as Rosemary Anne Young.

Christine and Patrick gradually spent more and more time at the Garden Fort instead of at Broadway, and right after Rosemary came home, Chris was VERY interested in helping all she could, getting some hands-on practice and any advice Allie had to share over the upcoming six months — if Allie, ahem, knew what she meant.

Black Tusk kinda fucked off and left them alone. The early thrashings they’d received, combined with the city’s burgeoning strength under Captain Tierman’s plan, made it clear the locals were not going to be easily suppressed or exploited as a means to an end, and the PMC seemed to move on to whatever their larger objectives were.

Allie’s gentle ministering to those seeking a faith at the Garden, or Broadway, or from the convoys, or even friendly and on-the-level wanderers, reminded Rebecca deep down of some of the lessons Ronnie sought to teach her about remembering people and carrying on. She supposed the wrath of an angry NCO could fit in with Old Testament material. However, both Ronnie’s wrath and Allie’s warm messages made one thing clear — kindness and acceptance would be the way of the future, one way or the other, and there were those comfortable with the contradiction of fighting fiercely for peace, to finish a fight swiftly and absolutely if someone started one. That was something she could get behind.

Sam didn’t let Rebecca give up on the idea of finding her mom. That idea drove them to start a list of every resident, every guest they’d met, any details they could about where they were from or going, what their skills were… and to push Fairbanks to try to institutionalize the practice across settlements and patrols. He also promised to inform them of any contact with the region her mom and uncle would hopefully be in, while the ladies gradually planned and prepared for a longer-range scouting mission. One day while entering a few new lines on her laptop, Sam observed that it was probably the most important spreadsheet she’d ever worked on.

Trent eventually figured out how to make tofu, with Allie’s suggestions for steps he was missing. He was still working on how to use it properly.

Erik continued to name big guns things like Mjolnir and Gungnir. He only gave steel magazines to people on garrison duty, or mostly riding around in vehicles.

A particularly rough-and-tumble group of wanderers led to some tense moments at the gate in the early spring, until Rebecca’s jaw dropped because she recognized the tattoos of Catherine, her proto-crush from Sociology 112. She’d run yelling between the two groups, and Cat had a good laugh as she removed the carbon fiber full-face mask she wore. During their short stay, she complimented Rebecca on growing out of her meek shell and becoming such a badass, eyed Sam speculatively, and then congratulated the two of them when the petite redhead gave no ground. She labeled them as "a-fucking-dorable", but was glad they could clearly take care of themselves. If she was unnerved to learn just how much firepower might have come to bear on her group, she didn’t show it.

By a fire pit that evening, Rebecca proposed an ongoing symbiotic bartering arrangement. On top of the obvious benefits of intel and information sharing between a well-connected settlement and a highly mobile group, Catherine’s little tribe could scavenge and salvage for the Garden during their travels and receive the benefits of a static location in exchange. Shelter, secure storage while they roamed, produce and crops, a large reserve of filtered water, battery charging, Sam’s or occasionally even Epstein’s assistance with repairs, and for anything really worth the premium, a little fuel, ammunition, or firearms. 

Cat declared that since Rebecca had always held up her end on group projects, they’d give it a shot — and laughed when some of the first requests off Rebecca’s tongue included a jasmine plant, vanilla extract, and all the chocolate chips they could find.

Sebastien found himself on Catherine’s radar the second time her group stopped by with a haul. He was helping offload a hefty air compressor and pneumatic mechanic’s tools, several coils of hose for a misting system Rebecca wanted on the roof before summer settled in, and an entire replacement wheel and tire for the flatfooted sedan. His pair of cutoff fatigues and sleeveless shirt left multiple tattoos visible, and Cat leaned over to Rebecca to describe him as "an absolutely delectable looking snack", inquiring after his availability. As far as Rebecca knew, he was, but she silently hoped she would actually see him again rather than learn Catherine had literally gone full praying (preying?) mantis on him.

At one point a couple truckloads of (probably drunk) yahoos pulled up, belching smoke like train locomotives from time to time, which was often accompanied by hooting and yelling. Apparently, they’d heard of a place with "lots of stuff" run by "three lesbians", and wanted to… well, Rebecca wasn’t really sure what they set out hoping to accomplish. But, she got to feel really, really fucking awesome when she tired of them, lifted her right hand, extended one finger, and twitched it forward.

She still jumped like everyone else when a single .50 caliber round boomed overhead and punched right through the lead truck’s engine block, but damn if it wasn’t fun to watch steam and smoke gush from under the front half of the truck as the engine died with a whistle and an unhealthy clatter. She thought she even saw an 'exit wound' blow out beneath the lifted truck, a splash of metal fragments and oil hitting the ground energetically enough to send gravel skittering.

Ronnie had been telling her how accurate the first shot from an M2 could be, and now she truly believed it. They rolled the abandoned disemboweled masculinity joke down the ramp to an out of the way corner — maybe "LCpl" Epstein could turn it into a project once he figured out what on earth they did to the smog control system. Within the week, Sam had angrily taped up a rainbow-striped pride flag (which they’d found on the same mall trip as the piercing shop) to the inside of the windshield out of spite.

That incident did make Rebecca think, though. She and Allie really had been handling most people-related matters for a few months. Sam and Leonard were naturally the deciding voices for infrastructure, and she realized she was starting to feel like a reasonably competent second to Ronnie’s leadership on tactical and strategic matters.

Had she really grown to be one of the leaders of a group that was rapidly approaching 30 people, before she was even that many years old? So many people depending on her?

She wondered about that one night, staring up at the ceiling dimly lit by ambient moonlight and a handful of solar powered nightlights, listening to Sam’s microsnores next to her. Maybe that was one take on what Sam and Ronnie kept telling her all these months. She thought about everyone who carried, cheered, or simply walked with her in so many stages of her life, some handing her from one to the next. Was it about accepting the presence, and the loss, walking next to (…no, she liked walking with, or walking for…) someone else, maybe even so they could pass it on themselves? She had a mental image of people, walking hand-in-hand in groups of two or three, then four or six, then all together out of this fuckpocalypse.

Sure, that’s as good a notion as any, as she rolled over to put an arm around Sam, pressed her nose into the faint cinnamon scented hair when her girl stirred and nestled closer, and drifted off to sleep with her lips resting lightly on the nape of Sam’s neck.

~ Fin ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, hopefully not everybody hates this and some folks actually made it this far. As you can guess from the epilogues, I have some ideas on additional stories to tell for Rebecca, Samantha, Rhonda, and their friends. I even have 20+ pages of a draft for a theoretical sequel, but I'm running into some creative speed bumps in between the major plot signposts I want to hit, so I figured I'd better just stop waiting for my would-be beta readers for the first story and put it out there in the hopes feedback would help stir up inspiration for the second one. Thanks for reading.


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